


see no evil

by Lise (thissugarcane)



Category: X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-29
Updated: 2010-05-29
Packaged: 2017-10-09 18:45:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 23,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/90395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thissugarcane/pseuds/Lise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A detective AU set in the background of a mutant rights bill conspiracy and murder. basically gen, hints of relationships. vaguely an L.A. Confidential AU, if you squint. a lot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. hear no evil

**Author's Note:**

> This story had been in the works for about four years when it was finally posted (I worked on it from 2000 to 2004, roughly); the original idea came from getting drunk as fuck on Dex's couch and watching _L.A. Confidential_ at four in the morning. the next day I had a raging hangover and a publicly posted, oh-so-incoherent lj post that became the vague idea for this story. to this day I have never actually watched _L.A. Confidential_, because I like the alcoholic haze version my brain made up and I don't want to ruin it.
> 
> Anyway, thanks go to Cherry Ice and Alestar for beta'ing; Dex, obviously, for providing inspiration in the form of vodka and the movie; and Al again for giving me the statue.

The road anywhere is paved with intentions; good, bad, ugly.

The elevator to the thirtieth floor was covered in mirrors. Scott glanced around uneasily as the bell dinged their arrival. Walking through the door, staring around in the dark, Scott almost slipped in a puddle of blood.

"We're too late," Logan muttered, and pulled his coat around him. "We won't find anything."

Scott stepped carefully down the hall and around a trail of broken glass from the expensive coffee table in the center of the living room, now just four spindly legs. The curtains were open, letting the view of Manhattan spread out in front of them. "Jesus," Scott said, "What an apartment."

It belonged to one of the most prominent contracts lawyers in the city. The entry way was bigger than Scott's whole condo, space dominated by a marble statue of three monkeys, hands over ears, mouth, and eyes. Paintings adorned every wall of the living room, and in the corner was what Scott would bet was a custom leather sofa.

Scott crunched more glass underfoot, glanced down.

"Slim," Logan growled. "Better watch it." He inclined his head to the bedroom door, slightly ajar; the two of them crept around more broken glass to push it open. It squeaked.

Logan raised an eyebrow. "Well there's Worthington," he said, and chewed on his cigar. "Poor fucker."

Worthington was stretched out on his bed, wings unfurled, face-down and bloodied, obviously dead. Scott took two steps into the room, glanced back. "Better call forensics."

He pulled out his handkerchief and swallowed, picked up a tied, used condom from the deep magenta carpeting. He looked at Worthington, and then at Logan.

The windows revealed the sky line of New York, and a sliver of pitch black sky.

~

The handcuffs were too tight. That was the first thing.

Elizabeth Braddock sighed, rolling over on the bed, and shook her head. "You're not going to get her that way." Her shapely legs hung out of a night dress that was far too short, and it was obvious that she was wearing nothing underneath. "If you want to go undercover, you have to do this and you have to know how to do this well."

"Ma'am, I--" Kitty looked down at her fake nails, clutching a pair of handcuff keys. It was better than staring at Betsy, who was wearing practically nothing. Kitty felt herself blush. "I don't know if I can do this."

Betsy pursed her lips, and then said, "Fine, unlock the cuffs. Maybe you aren't able to perform your duties."

"No." She sighed, and Betsy was pleased. "No. Let me try again." Betsy's lips curved as Kitty loosened the cuffs just enough for her to move, and then licked her lips. Kitty said, "I can do this."

Betsy murmured, "of course you can."

"Okay," Kitty muttered, still clutching the key ring. Her eyes slid, unwillingly, to Betsy, her hair spread out on the pillow. "The first thing to remember is, use my assets. The second thing is don't give away any advantages."

Betsy nodded, and said gently, "You have the strength to do this, Katherine, and we need you on this case. A lot."

"I know," Kitty answered, putting the keys down. Betsy lounged against the pillows, staring up at her face until Kitty looked back at her, biting her lip. "I know," Kitty echoed, and rubbed her face. "I can do this."

"All right." Betsy shifted, responding to Kitty's discomfort. That was another thing; Kitty knew she would have to get over that embarrassment. Betsy's low-grade telepathy seemed to be an asset in assessing the particular level of discomfort that Kitty was able to withstand, because Betsy's voice became much more business-like. "Un-cuff me, and we'll get dressed and you can go over client profiles again."

~

"What is it this time?" Logan said, driving the SUV eighty miles an hour along a suburban street. Scott spoke briefly into his phone and snapped it closed. Logan turned a corner on a red light, one hand on the wheel. "What'd they find?"

"Nothing." Scott put his phone back in the front pocket of his white shirt. "Just a guy."

"You mean no one important." Logan kept going down 52nd Avenue, until he hit another red light. "So where we headed, Slim?"

Scott glanced at him. "We're gonna check it out? I thought we were on the Worthing--"

"Yeah." Logan drove ahead as the light turned green, both hands on the wheel. "What's that address?"

Scott glanced at his notepad, where he'd written down the address. "1212 on Rupert Street. Somewhere--" Logan was grinning. "You know where?" Scott asked.

Logan drove a steady eighty, stubby fingertip tapping against the steering wheel. He considered for a moment. "An old Baptist church." His face sharpened, and his voice was more professional when he said, "We'll check it out, in case."

"You're the boss." Scott glanced down at his notepad; the agent who'd called it in had only said that it was messy, and that so far, they'd managed to keep the press away, were waiting for the forensics team. "What do you think we'll find?"

Logan's eyes half-closed, a sleepy expression in them. "Dunno."

Scott stared out the window, thinking. "Sure."

~

"It's not that we don't appreciate your enthusiasm, Elizabeth," and she nodded, curtly. "But perhaps pushing Officer Pryde into an undercover situation that she is unprepared for is not the best course of--"

"She's ready," Betsy interrupted. "She's ready."

Xavier, the section chief, sighed. "So you say."

"She's ready." She glanced down to Xavier's desk. The ashtray was full of expensive Cuban cigar ends. Xavier didn't smoke. Betsy said, "if she isn't, I'll go in her place," and her bracelets jangled. "Vice is going to do its fair share, sir," she said. "I promise."

"Of course you will," he replied, soothingly. The desk lamp shone off Xavier's bald head. He wasn't smiling. He tipped back in the chair, and added, "I have complete confidence in you."

Betsy nodded again, tugging the hem of her suit jacket down. "Thank you, sir."

"I'm going home for the day," Xavier said. "I suggest you do the same."

"I had planned on going over some thing with Officer Pryde, tonight, sir. There's still a lot of information that we--"

Xavier stood up, rubbed his head. "Go home, Elizabeth." The tone was kind but he still wasn't smiling. "You deserve a night off. Go home, relax."

She stepped out of his way. "Thank you, sir."

~

"That's Senator William Drake's boy," Logan said, and sighed. "Thank god they didn't move the body."

Scott frowned. "You think we should have?"

Logan shrugged. "When the Senator finds out that he's dead, he'll thank us for keeping a lid on it." He bent down, examining the man's neck, being careful not to touch him. "Don't look strangled."

Scott was glaring at the other uniforms, who were standing around and scowling at the two of them. He barked, "Unless you want the Senator to find you a new line of work, you'll seal this whole area off. No one in or out, including yourselves."

They started to protest, but then Logan stood up. "Yer only uniforms, so I won't arrest ya today. Get movin'." He went back to crouching on his heels, frowning in concentration. Scott glanced down. Logan kept staring at the body, which was lying in a significant amount of blood. Now that he had rolled it over, they could see the blood pooled from two entry holes in the chest; absently, Logan waved Scott off. "Go check the area. We're missin' something."

Scott pulled out a pair of latex gloves, just in case, and started pacing, watching his step carefully. The body – Bobby Drake – was stretched out on the ground, but there was nothing in the surrounding area except some puddles and dank asphalt, and behind Drake, the brick wall of the church. He pulled his phone out, dialed, and Jean answered, "Can I help you?"

"Can you look up a Robert Drake, licence plate and car model for me?"

"Take a few minutes." She sounded puzzled.

Scott glanced around. "Rule out pick up trucks. And 4x4s." There were only two 4x4s in the lot, and one of them belonged to Logan. "Maybe... maybe a Mercedes, or something fancier."

He could hear Jean clacking away. Scott kept walking, along the side of the building, and to the entrance. On the door handle, there was a suspicious hint of red. He took out his flashlight, and shone it on the handle -- "Blood."

"What?" Jean brought him back. "I found what you wanted. Silver Mercedes, T45-8ED."

Scott was already walking back to Logan, who still hadn't stirred from his crouch. "Thanks, Jean. And, could you keep this confidential, for now?"

"I don't know..."

"Please?" Scott coaxed; his mind was already working up a scenario. "I'd really appreciate it."

Her little laugh disturbed his line of thought; she replied, "All right. Good luck, Scott." He snapped the phone shut without saying goodbye.

Logan looked up. "Find anything?"

"Robert Drake's car was a silver Mercedes. And there's blood on the church entrance." He paused. "What are you thinking about?"

Logan stood up. " Nothin'. Let's clear these uniforms outta here, and wait for forensics."

"Shouldn't we look for his car?"

Logan smiled. "Doubt we'll find it."

"You think whoever's responsible took it? Or do you think he took a cab?"

Logan wiped his hands off with a handkerchief carefully. They were covered in grime from propping himself up on the ground; it had rained, and the asphalt was dirty. "Either they took it or it's not here, Slim. Do you see a silver Mercedes?"

Scott looked around, making a sweep of the parking lot. "Not here."

"Nah. So we send a couple of the grunts to check the streets around here, which gets'em outta our hair too, and we concentrate on the body." Logan walked up to one of the police officers and ordered him to look for Drake's car. Two of them went off, grumbling.

Scott looked down at Bobby Drake again. "Where's his wallet?" he asked Logan.

"Before we turned him over, it looked like it was in his pants. Gimme the Polaroids." Scott handed Logan the pictures they had taken. "Yep." He pointed. "It's there. Come on, I gotta check on something."

"So." Scott frowned again, scrubbing at his hair. "Are we missing something?"

Logan handed back the pictures. "A condom."

Scott watched Logan walk away, back to their car, glancing around his feet every few steps. The blue and red of the police cars flashed insistently around the scene.

~

She was supposed to meet Agent Braddock to go over the last details of her training. Being early as usual, Kitty had a half-hour to kill, and there was a message on her desk that said Xavier wanted to speak with her.

The girl that pointed Kitty to the right office had rabbit-teeth and a tremulous smile. Kitty squared her shoulders and knocked on the chief's door.

A voice called out, "Yeah?" Gruff, a little raspy. Kitty opened the door on a shorter man, wearing a hat with a wide brim and rifling through files. "What do you want?"

"I." She glanced over at the name on the desk. "Are you Xavier?"

"Nah." He went back to flipping through a brown folder. "He's gone for the day."

Kitty almost turned around, ready to flee, but then she saw the folder that the man was going through. "Worthington? You're on that case?"

She took a few more steps into the office, peering at him. He snapped the folder closed. "Nah," he said.

~

"Did you find what you were looking for?"

Logan shrugged as they drove away from the station house. "Kinda." He dropped a manila envelope into Scott's lap. After a moment, Scott started to unwrap the twine holding it together. "Not here," Logan barked.

Scott dropped the envelope. "What's in it?"

"Worthington file." Logan pulled into a coffee shop parking lot. "Want anything?"

"Oh." Scott was startled, as the engine snapped off. The coffee shop was deserted save the waitress and short-order cook. "Uh, no, I'm fine."

Logan opened his door. "You want something." Scott hesitated a moment, then grabbed his cell phone. "Bring the file," Logan said.

They ordered coffee and dessert, Logan setting into his ferociously, spooning huge chunks into his mouth and swallowing without chewing. Scott ate a few bites, and then pushed his plate away. "So, what are we doing here, Logan?"

"Gotta hunch," Logan said around a mouthful of boysenberry cobbler. "Drake looked a lot like Worthington."

Scott was pulling out the crime scene photos from Worthington's apartment, squinting at the placement of the body. "Worthington was on his stomach, spread out. You could see his wings and the blood on them, pools of it on the sheets too."

Logan swallowed the last of the cobbler, washed it down with a huge gulp of black coffee. "Drake was layin' face down too, remember."

"Worthington was naked." Scott frowned. "I'm sorry, I can't see the connect--"

"Drake's pants were off, weren't they?" Logan said, abruptly. "Zipper down, button undone. That's pretty unusual for a normal homicide."

Scott stared at the black and white photo of Warren Worthington III, and picked up his cup of milky coffee absently. Scott swirled the liquid around without drinking, while he studied the photos spread out on the table in front of them. Worthington's wings, pure bright white in places and dark grey, bloody, in others, stood out in every photograph. It was obvious the murderer intended them to.

"Gonna eat that?" Logan said, cutting into Scott's thoughts. Scott shook his head, and Logan grabbed his barely-touched piece of cherry pie. A bit of juice dripped onto the table and Scott moved the photos away from Logan, wiping the little splatter off with his coat sleeve. The fluorescent red was a little tacky against the crime scene pictures.

Robert Drake, face down on the pavement, two bullets in his chest. Warren Worthington, face down on his bed, naked, from a--

"Do we have the autopsy on Worthington? Was it really the stab-wounds to his wings that did him in?"

The photocopy of the initial forensics findings, complete with hastily scribbled notes, was slapped in front of Scott. Right there at the bottom, some careful coroner had added 'bullet entry shattered the spine, possibly post-mortem, but until full autopsy, findings inconclusive.' Logan licked cherry filling off his lips.

"The same M.O. The same guy?" Scott asked, and he saw Logan smile, very slightly.

~

"I thought you were going to meet me at the--"

"Katherine," Betsy said. "You're going to have to get used to women taking you out."

Kitty sipped her champagne, carefully taking only a very small mouthful. "I wouldn't call you taking me out appropriate, Agent Braddock."

"You wouldn't?"

Kitty answered smoothly, "You're my direct superior within the department. Socializing in any kind of romantic setting would be inappropriate."

Betsy raised her glass, the champagne bubbles popping against the delicate crystal glass. The lounge was full of people with money. "It would be inappropriate," Betsy said, finally.

"It's late," Kitty said, glancing at the clock above the bar. "I should probably go home."

"Make sure you look over those files once more," Betsy murmured, sipping from her glass. Agent Braddock looked perfectly reasonable, sitting in a plush loveseat with wine in her hand. The subdued lighting of the wine bar complimented her exotic features well, made her eyes stand out as shadows, thick liquid eyeliner softened. Her red lips looked darker, a deep, full wine color.

Kitty stood, awkwardly, and picked up her purse. "How much--"

"Don't worry about the bill, Katherine," Betsy said. After a hesitant look from Kitty, she said, "I'll bill it to the department's account. We were discussing a case, after all."

The gentle sound of the fountain in the middle of the lounge followed Kitty out to the dark street. Her watch said it was nearly midnight. From the outside, the wine bar looked like any other dull office building with a discreet entrance. The copper plate beside the double doors didn't even have the name of the bar, just its street address and logo. Kitty had no idea what the bar was named; Betsy hadn't told her, and not being a smoker, of course she hadn't picked up a pack of matches with a name on the front.

Hailing a cab, Kitty sighed. Agent Braddock would have got matches.

~

"So what do we do now?"

Logan said, "We call the uniforms over by Drake's scene, tell'em to stay the fuck away from the area until forensics can go over the place with everything they've got. I hope to god they haven't touched the body."

"And then?"

Logan started the car. "I'm gonna sleep some, then we'll go back out in the morning. Forensics'll be there most of the night."

"That's it?"

Logan glanced over at Scott, eyes dark. "That's it, Slim."

~

Kitty woke up ten minutes earlier than her alarm, like she always did. Her first thought upon waking was "Emma Frost, thirty nine years old, likes to be on top. Client list extensive, including politicians, bankers, wives and husbands. Third floor, office, second floor, dining room."

She was halfway through Emma's dossier before she was truly awake, and mentally had listed off all fifty five of her customers.

~

"Thank you for seeing us, this really is quite important, Senator." Scott said. The man, sixties, grey hair, dark look, nodded. "Did Robert have any enemies, did he--"

Logan blew smoke. "Thanks fer the cigar, sir," he interrupted. "I just gotta ask, was Bobby gay?"

The Senator ushered them out.

~

Betsy was sitting at her desk when Logan showed up, Scott in tow. "Bets," he said, "lookin' for some info and I think you're just the gal we need."

She stood up. "I don't hand out case files, Logan, so unless--" and he handed her a transfer req from Xavier. She raised an eyebrow. "You're moving to Vice?"

"Long enough that it gives me everything you know about Bobby Drake."

"Bobby Drake," Betsy said, frowning. "Why?"

Logan was sitting on the edge of her desk. Scott, looming behind him with his sunglasses and dark coat, looked more mafia than police. He crossed his arms. "He's dead," Logan replied, "and it looks like a boyfriend out for revenge."

Scott said, "Though--" and Logan held a hand up. Logan glanced at Betsy. There was no way for them to tell where Scott was looking.

"A boyfriend," Betsy said, digging through the recess of her bottom drawer. Bobby Drake had made several visits to the club she was currently working with, so the relevant file wasn't too hard to find. "The son of Senator Drake, found dead in an alley somewhere. And he always seemed an upstanding citizen."

"Ain't standing much of any way," Logan answered.

"Gallows humour," and she sighed. "Here, take it, enjoy."

~

"Forensics found a condom," Logan said, flipping through the papers on his desk. "In the alley beside the church. Tied off just like you please. Analyzin' the semen now."

"Did we ever get word about the semen from Worthington?" Scott said, glancing up from his computer screen. Two reports to do in an hour. At least he was speedy about doing them.

Logan chucked a page over the screen to land in Scott's lap. "Uniforms figured it might be Worthington's. Not rightly sure. Prelims think it might be someone else's."

Scott read through the lab findings, surprised. "Were we expecting that?"

"Ain't expecting anything, Slim," he answered. "You almost done? We gotta go back over to that church, and check it out."

"How did you know there'd be a condom, Logan?" Scott asked, printing off his reports. As if anyone would read them.

"Call it a hunch." He put on his long coat and hat. "You coming?"

~

Kitty spent most of the day trying on clothing, while Agent Braddock watched and nodded or shook her head. She was almost to the point where taking all of her clothing off in front of Braddock wasn't embarrassing anymore. "So we're due at seven? Is that right?"

"As long as Emma calls, we'll be fine," Betsy said. "Don't worry. You look beautiful."

Kitty stared at herself, doubtfully. "And all I'm supposed to do is talk to the girls, find out whether or not any of them have had unpleasant experiences. Which clients are dangerous."

Betsy nodded. "Vice is focusing on the john this year, not the whore."

Kitty glanced up. "I don't think I've ever heard you say the word whore before," she replied.

"Oh," Betsy answered. "Well." She glanced at her watch. "I don't ever want to hear you say it. You're going undercover."

"Of course," and Kitty adjusted her creamy silk skirt. "Right."

~

Scott and Logan spent most of the day and that night going over the Worthington apartment, and the church. Nothing.

At about one thirty am, the CB crackled to life, fuzzing every second syllable: two domestic disturbances, a grand theft auto, and a call for uniforms at a homicide. Just as the dispatcher called another car for reinforcements, Logan's cell phone jangled. Logan listened for a minute, grunted, and hung up. He said, "we got another one."

Logan wiped his fingers, and tossed the last of his taco into the trash can, then opened his car door. As he got in the driver's seat, Scott carefully took a last bite, and wiped a bit of salsa off his mouth. He walked over to the garbage, and dropped the wrapper in.

~

Even though Scott was half expecting it, the scene still took him off-guard.

"Looks to be robbed, then shot," the uniform grunted. "Still wearin' his badge and everything. Fucker shot a detective and then vanished."

Scott chased off a couple of other uniforms. Logan chewed on his lip a while. "Why do you say he was robbed?"

"He won over two hundred bucks at the poker game tonight, and he just left. It ain't in his wallet, ain't anywhere on him." The alley was three streets away from the precinct.

"You've got his wallet?" Scott asked sharply.

"Wallet, ID cards, badge. No credit cards."

Logan turned to Scott. "Tell forensics to wait until we're done. Get the rest of'em to clear out and start bangin' on doors to find out if anyone heard anything."

"They won't have."

"Nope," Logan commented, and crouched down. "Look." His flashlight revealed a tied condom, looking to have been kicked out of the way by impatient feet. A couple of the prints might be usable, no way to be sure.

Scott was already looking elsewhere, right beside the detective's head. A half-smoked cigarette was lying there as well, tossed aside. Logan waved over the same cop, who explained, "Yeah, thought the butt might mean we got a chance of catching 'em."

"And the condom?" Scott asked.

"Oh," and the uniform shifted uncomfortably. "Didn't think it was relevant. The butt though. Only half-smoked. One of the ladies lives in the apartments over there heard a fella running right past her window. Figure whoever it was got surprised, had to run for it. We're working on--"

"How she know it was a man?" Scott interrupted, railroading him.

"Well, cause she looked out, says she saw him, partially at least. Fairly sure she saw right, there's enough light."

Logan was scuffing his feet in a patch of dirt several paces away. Scott glanced over. Logan stopped, "where did you find his wallet again?"

"Right in his back pocket, as calm as you please. Just like he'd put it there."

~

Kitty stared up at the impressive house, an elegant three story attached brownstone in a very nice area of town. The curtains were drawn in all the windows but the ground floor, and she could only see potted plants through those. The next house over was dark.

Betsy turned to her. "Remember. Don't ever smoke around Emma."

"I don't smoke."

Betsy had already dismissed her. She was adjusting her hair in the car's rear view mirror, putting more lipstick on. "This isn't Emma's primary residence. That's out of town. She entertains more reclusive guests here."

Kitty got out of the car as Betsy held her door open for her. They went up to the door, and Betsy pressed a door buzzer, hidden nicely behind some creeping ivy. Kitty examined the door knocker -- old and ornate, some kind of animals, like rabbits or monkeys. Three of them.

An older woman answered the door, and when Kitty glanced over at Betsy, she could hardly recognise her. The woman's smile had shifted somehow, changed so the face was lit up, and alien. Kitty realized she looked genuinely happy.

~

Scott was standing with Logan over the body of a dead detective. Logan was smoking. "Okay," Scott said, finally. "We got ourselves a witness. We got something, at least."

"If she saw anything," Logan said. "Other than 'a guy'. Which ain't much."

Scott kept staring at the detective's feet; there was something wrong with his shoes. They were dirty, scuffed, and – "Logan," he finally asked, sudden and startled, "You ever shop up on 5th Avenue? In the really ritzy stores?" Logan just looked at him. Scott added hastily, "I've seen those shoes before. In one of those stores."

Logan kneeled down. "Yeah?" He poked at the detective's sole with a fingernail. "You think a uniform like Wagner could have afforded something like'em?"

Scott said, "hell no."

A truck pulled up to the alley, a blue police van with blue lights flashing. Logan stood up, wincing against the sudden light in the alley. Scott pursed his lips. "You think they're gonna wait with the forensics?"

"Goddamned," Logan said. "Doubt it. We'd better head back."

"We have something now," Scott said, jogging to keep up with Logan as he headed back to the station house. "It was a man."

"Always figured it was a guy," Logan answered. "Some of them pretty boys pack a nice wallop."

"So he sleeps with them, shoots them, and then fucks with the corpses?"

It was a bad choice of words, Scott closed his mouth. Logan didn't notice, or didn't comment. "Prostitutes will top clients," Logan replied. "Just gotta find out which ones."

~

"Charmed," Emma said, "positively charmed."

Kitty shook her hand, and tried not to stare at the white nail polish on her short fingernails. "It's very kind of you to allow me to dine at your home," she replied, and Emma took her hand away. "The meal was amazing."

"It was, wasn't it," Emma said, steepling her hands together. "Elizabeth tells me you're considering contracting with us." She smiled, and the light frosted gloss on her lips parted, shining. "Normally I don't consider new clients without--" and Kitty saw her hesitate, "a certain amount of assurance, but for Elizabeth I'm willing to make an exception."

"Oh," Kitty replied. She bit her lip, looked down, tried to show off modesty and only a little nerves. "Yes, I'm. Considering. I," she started, and looked down instinctively. "Yes."

Emma said in delight, "She blushes! Very charmed, Katherine." Emma's cool fingers touched her chin, for a brief instant. "My darling, female clients are a breed different from men. You should enjoy every instant."

Kitty nodded, unconsciously chewing her lip. She stared at Emma's mouth while she spoke, about her friends and the kind of companion Kitty might want. Kitty stared at her mouth the whole time. Emma's lipstick didn't smudge, except when she sipped champagne. Maybe it didn't smudge even then; maybe she was just imagining it. Emma looked immaculately put together, frosted and faintly shimmering. She held her champagne with one delicate hand, and gently stroked Kitty's knee with the other.

~

There was a reporter for the paper standing in front of the station house when Scott and Logan got back. "Don't you sharks ever sleep?" Logan asked him.

"Is that the quote you want repeated tomorrow morning?" Trish jogged to keep up to the two of them, saying, "a little bird told me something very interesting today. He told me that you guys have two bodies in cold storage with bullets in them and mutilated appendages." She dodged as the door almost slammed in his face. Logan increased his pace. "I heard that they were all mutants."

Logan turned around, abruptly, and grabbed Trish's collar. She huffed, choking a little, and struggling. Logan replied, "You know what they teach you in the Marines?" The reporter shook her head, bangs flopping one way, then the other. "How to snap people's necks in ten seconds or less. Used to practise on logs, time each other. Have races. Y'know."

He let go. Trish massaged her neck. "Is that a threat?"

"Not at all." Logan wiped his hands on his coat. "I got so's I could snap ten logs in ten seconds."

Scott watched the lady push her way to the doors of the stationhouse. "You were in the Marines?"

"Well," Logan said, and sped up again. "Kinda."

Scott fell into step behind Logan, but in Logan's coat pocket he imagined the tied condom rattling around in the plastic baggie. "If we can just," as Logan opened the stairwell door for the both of them, "get anything outta Bets tonight."

"Bets?"

"Agent Braddock," Logan replied, his mind obviously a thousand miles away. Scott could tell he was thinking about a thousand different things: his voice was clipped, short, and his forehead furrowed. Plus, Scott knew Logan would never have let slip that he called Agent Braddock by a nickname unless he was distracted. It was the kind of personal information that he never let slip.

Logan proceeded straight to Braddock's desk, and looked around. The stationhouse was practically deserted, everyone trying to figure out what was going on three blocks away. As Logan started opening drawers, Scott stared at the telephone on the desk. "Aren't we going to investigate the murder down the street?"

"Already know who did that," Logan said, waving a hand in the air. He bent over, obscuring the desk drawers with his hunched back, and did something -- then Scott heard the soft 'shhhh' of the bottom locked drawer opening. "Same guy who did in Worthington and Drake."

Logan sat in Braddock's chair, flipping files out onto the top of the desk in rapid succession. Scott peered at several of them, and then realized that they were client files for her case -- men who hired whores. "What are you looking for?"

He held a few stapled pieces of paper up for Scott's perusal, in answer. "Her contact at that club," Logan answered. "Emma Frost."

"You want to go over there tonight?"

Logan had gone over to the photocopier, and was running off copies. "Nah," he said. "No need to rush things."

Scott frowned. On the desk, a pile of some two dozen folders had the lives of some two dozen johns. "Are you sure Emma's the one?"

"She has high class men for men, all right," Logan called out over the noise of the photocopier.

Robert Drake's son wouldn't have hired anyone less than the best, Scott realized suddenly. Neither would Worthington. Nothing but the best. "What about the cop?" he said. "Not likely he could have convinced her to send someone over to service a measly street cop."

Logan shrugged, coming back with Betsy's file on Emma Frost in one hand, and pristine copies in the other. "Mighta blackmailed the kid, previous charges. Something. Anyway, he paid him."

"The two hundred bucks missing?"

"Yep," Logan said, rooting through the mess of papers he'd made. "Didn't even touch the guy's wallet. Just took the money and ran."

"After he shot him?" Scott asked. Logan was pulling out Worthington's client file, next. He stared at it, through it even, and then went back to the copier. "He shoots the guy, then runs -- when he sliced Worthington up even after he was dead?"

"Maybe he saw the light in the neighbour's window."

Something didn't feel right, something was itching at the back of Scott's mind. Something big and important; animal instincts, and the instinct that most people have when approached with danger. Fight or flight. "Whoever did in Worthington wasn't concerned," Scott said slowly. "He didn't hesitate and he didn't rush."

"Two points," Logan answered. "Hand me Drake's file? And see if the detective -- Kurt Wagner? -- has anything in that pile, too." Scott tossed him the file they'd already looked through but weren't allowed to copy, and then started looking for Wagner's name on the carefully labelled file folders. "So either he doesn't like being outside, or--"

Scott interrupted, "He killed Drake outside. And there was blood on the church door, but Drake was dragged away from the door." He frowned. "Doesn't shout worry to me. It says--"

"He's casual about it," Logan finished, as the copier hummed away.

"So the guy who ran tonight," Scott said, more to himself than Logan, but Logan shrugged, said,

"hmmm", and kept copying. Scott got the distinct impression that Logan was ignoring him, and so he closed his mouth again, frowning beneath his glasses. Eventually Logan would have to tell him what was going on.

Logan finally said, "okay, Slim, we'd best get out of here before anyone shows up from down the street."

Scott went to the window, stared out for a minute. The street was quiet; all the officers must still have been at the crime scene.

Logan sat down again, and scooped up the papers on the desk. He started throwing the folders back in the bottom drawer of Braddock's desk, shifting some around rapidly, tucking others away. It looked random, careless. Scott watched him. "You know what order they were in?"

Logan slipped the last one in, and tapped it down. Scott looked over and each folder was perfectly ordered, not a seam out of place. All the tags faced out and they followed in order, numbered on the right hand side of each file. Scott hadn't even noticed the numbers, traced in pencil. "Think so," Logan said absently. He bent over, obscuring Scott's view again, and when he stood up smoothly, the drawer was locked and good as new.

Scott followed Logan, who set a brisk pace down the hall, the stairs, to the exit. He moved to step out of the station house, then paused, frowning. Scott stepped to the side as Logan peered out into the darkness, face scrunched up, looking for something.

"What?" Scott said.

"Probably nothing. C'mon." Logan shrugged, nonchalant again. Scott glanced behind him, trying to figure out where Logan's hunches were going.

~

Betsy didn't give them a chance to explain. "You were in my files last night," she accused Logan, black coffee cup clutched in her hand. "Don't deny it."

Logan didn't even look up from his computer screen. "You tell Xavier? Rat me out?"

The brisk clacking of keys didn't waver as Logan typed out his report. Across the desk, Scott flipped through the Worthington file again, laying out first the crime scene photos of Worthington, then Drake, then Wagner. He watched Betsy and Logan out of the corner of his eye.

"No," Logan said. "You didn't. Fuck off. I'm busy."

Betsy clicked her teeth together, but rounded on her heel and stormed away.

~

There was another one two nights later.

"He drown?"

Logan indicated the bullet wound visible in the seat. "Not really."

"Why the water, then?"

"You ever hear of St. John Allerdyce?" Logan chewed on his cigar. There was going to be no easy way to examine the body without losing half the crime scene. The garden hose, stuck in a rear window and running to Allerdyce's garden tap, had filled the whole car up with icy water. Logan sat back on his haunches, staring at the front of the car. "Wonder why the water didn't get out through the cracks in the doors?"

Scott peered at the drivers' side door. It was hard to tell, squinting in the dark, but, "sealed somehow?"

"Maybe some of that cheap spray stuff, like to seal windows in the winter." Logan stood. "I had ta use that stuff last winter, make sure my apartment wasn't an icebox."

Scott looked around at the yard. A little light was spilling into the car from the street lamp, and Allerdyce's porch light was on, but that was it. "Let's get the uniforms to bring us a couple of those standing lights. Give'em something to do while we look around."

The police photographer was busily snapping pictures. Logan turned to him. "You almost done?"

"Yessir."

"Make sure you get his tires," Scott interrupted. "And be careful you don't step on anything."

"Allerdyce," Logan murmured in Scott's ear, "was a petty drug dealer. No one worth killin'."

"Someone thought he was," Scott answered. "And had a lot of time to do it. Sealed the cracks in the car so it would flood. Played with the body."

Allerdyce's throat was torn out – blood loss minimal, post mortem. "True that," Logan said.

Allerdyce had a tattoo on his shoulder, shirt rolled up carefully to reveal it. Scott pointed. "Look at that," he said. "Navy?"

Logan hunched over, staring at the car. "Not important." He pulled out a cigar, started chewing on it. "I wanna know where the condom is."

Scott shrugged. "We'll find it. Maybe in the car." There was no point trying to get any serious detective work done while the police photographer and forensic specialists were at it, so he stood back and let his mind chew on the problem of how someone could shoot a man in his car, tear his throat out, and then seal up all the doors, get a garden hose and flood the vehicle without being seen. "He was a mutant?"

Logan nodded. "Yep. Controlled fires. Little ones, nothin' special. Drowned - real symbolic."

"St. John." Scott stared at the car. Allerdyce's head was below the water, strapped in with his seatbelt. His hair was moving gently in the water, his face a little bloated. "Wasn't he the one that baptised Jesus?"

Logan watched the photographer toddle off as he chewed on the end of his cigar, and then shooed the other uniforms to a safe distance. "One of the Johns." He tried to pull the hose out of the window, but it was wedged in firmly, tape sealing the crack. Logan stepped back. "You ain't Catholic, are you Slim?"

Scott shook his head. He braced himself, and forced the door open. Water flooded over both of their shoes, and got Scott's socks wet. Allerdyce slumped over limply.

~

They found the condom tied off. Logan barely glanced at it. Instead, he stood near a patch of trampled grass, off to the side, frowning. In the mud beside the car, Scott made out a smudged footprint. He took the photo of it himself.

"Maybe," Scott said in the car, "it's time to tell the chief that we think these aren't random." He watched Logan's reaction carefully, but Logan simply glanced back over at Scott, eyes faintly narrow. "This is four," Scott added. "Something is going on."

"Something's going on," Logan echoed, agreeably.

Scott went home and tried to fall asleep. He couldn't remember his dreams when he woke up.

~

"What've we got?" Logan said, striding over. Scott leaned against the wall, looking at the uniforms guarding the door. A huge man was locked in interrogation room three.

Scott said, "couple of guys picked him up near Wagner's crime scene. Got lucky with one of the footprints." He snorted. "No fucking idea why he came back wearing the same shoes, but we bagged him. Found a gun on him, looks to take the same kind of ammo that did in Wagner. We're waiting on lab results."

Logan nodded, pulling out a cigar and lighting it. He peered through the one way mirror. "He put up a struggle?"

Scott blinked. "Not sure. Want me to call up the uniform that brought him in?" Logan nodded.

The uniform said, "he tried to run, pulled the gun but didn't use it. Pretty casual about the whole thing." Shrugged. "We were lucky there were two of us. Look at him."

"Name?" Logan asked, uninterested. He was obviously deep in thought, and not about what the uniform was saying. Scott had a feeling Logan didn't care about the guy's name, or already knew it.

"Creed," the uniform said. "Couple of previous convictions."

Scott interrupted, "he a mutant?"

The uniform was taken by surprise. Scott glanced at Logan, who looked equally surprised for a moment, then covered it up. "Don't know," the uniform said.

"Anyone talk to him yet?" Logan asked.

"Nah," and the uniform scratched his head. "We figured on letting him stew for a while. Plus, this is your case."

"Appreciated," Logan said, dismissing him. He stared through the mirror. Scott tried to figure out why Logan's stance was different, what he was conveying through body language that he hadn't in words. It was relaxation, Scott realized suddenly. They'd found a solid suspect, a lead, and Logan was relaxed, easy going.

"I'm going in," Logan told Scott, finally. "Watch."

Scott nodded, and rubbed his forehead while Logan questioned Creed. Creed was calm, almost bored. Logan was – guarded. He continued to smoke. "Why d'you think you were pulled in?" Logan asked him.

"I dunno."

Logan sat down, crossed his legs, leaned back. "You know anything about Robert Drake?" Creed shook his head. "What about Warren Worthington? John Allerdyce?" Creed shook his head again. There was no mistaking the little smile on his face, the right side of his mouth turned up ever so slightly. Scott watched the scar there tighten, then go slack, as the smile played on Creed's face.

Logan stood up. "How 'bout Detective Kurt Wagner?" he said to Creed. "The crime scene you were tramplin' all over." He puffed on the cigar while Scott watched through the one way mirror.

"What you want me to say?" Creed asked. "That I killed that cop?"

Logan sat. Scott could barely see his face for the blue smoke ringing both their heads. "Fuck 'im too? Or just get on yer knees in the alley?"

Creed shifted around, rearranging his limbs. "I ain't no prostitute," he said casually.

Logan stared at him for a long moment. "No, yer not."

Outside, Scott frowned. "You think he's not the one?"

"Oh, he's the one all right," Logan said. "He just ain't pickin' the targets. Bein' led, somehow."

"By who?"

Logan tapped his finger on the one-way mirror. Creed, if Scott didn't know better, was staring right at them.

~

"So what you're telling me," Xavier said finally, "is that these seemingly random murders are connected?" He stared at Scott and Logan from behind his desk. Scott focused on the closed blinds. "That we have a potential serial murderer on the loose who is targeting mutants of various backgrounds and ages? And that you have the killer locked up, but don't think he's alone, and are going to have to release him in twelve hours on the grounds of having no evidence?"

Logan puffed away. Scott watched the smoke curl. He couldn't help wondering if Logan was even aware of his dependence on the cigars, or whether it was an affectation that he'd had so long it was unconscious. Logan would be aware, Scott decided. The ashtray was still full of cigar ends, though new or old, Scott couldn't tell.

"Well. This is an interesting report, Logan," Xavier said, "but far from proof--"

"You know it," Logan interrupted. "You know it and I know it, and very, very soon the press will know it." He put his hands on the desk, palms flat, and leaned over. "You know what that'll mean?"

Xavier turned his gaze from Logan to Scott, finally. Scott brought his attention back to the conversation. "What do you think, Scott?" Xavier said.

Scott chewed on his lip. "I think we need to keep investigating," he started. That was a safe thing to say. Xavier seemed to want more. "And I think that there's a definite connection between Emma Frost and these murders, either directly or indirectly." Xavier waited. "And," Scott finally said, glancing at Logan, "my gut tells me it's more than a random serial killer. We get someone on Creed when he's released, and keep looking."

Beside him, Logan looked pleased. Xavier didn't. "Accompany Betsy," he said shortly, piling their reports onto a corner of the desk, forgotten. Scott had no doubt he wouldn't open them again. Xavier added, "Maybe we can get to the bottom of this before it's released to the public."

Outside Xavier's office, Logan halted him with a strong hand on his shoulder. "Hey," he said, low. "Nice work. But," and Logan's eyes darted around suddenly, from the detective on duty at the desk, to the clerks with the dictaphones, to the chief's door, "I wouldn't say all that again."

 


	2. speak no evil

"No."

Logan was strangely silent. "Agent Braddock, this is just a fact-finding trip," Scott said, looking to Logan for support. Logan remained silent. "It's been ordered."

Betsy said "no," again, but the fight was gone out of her.

The agent seen most in Braddock's company came up just then, a Kitty Pryde. Scott nodded politely. She looked barely old enough to be out of college, never mind working undercover for vice. "Agent Braddock?" she said. "I have those--"

Betsy took half the papers out of her hand with a last angry look at Logan, and stalked off. Scott frowned. Kitty smiled at them both. "I heard that you two are going to come with us," she said. "To Emma's."

"You call her Emma?" Logan asked. "That regulation?"

Kitty pursed her lips, tapped one finger on the desk. Scott peered at the papers she was holding, getting a glimpse of some familiar faces. Kitty retorted, "I'm undercover. I have to keep that up every day."

Logan nodded. Scott blinked. He rarely saw Logan capitulate to anyone. "Fair enough," Logan answered. "Listen, you wanna do me and Slim," and he jerked his thumb at Scott, "a favour? Can you keep an eye out for boys that people pay for? Expensive ones. Maybe ones that switch hit for clients." He paused a minute, and added casually, "nothing but the best, if you know what I mean."

Kitty frowned. "For a case?"

"Yeah," Logan answered. "For a case."

"Is it the Worthington case?"

Logan stared at her, patiently, until she excused herself. Scott turned to Logan. "Did you see what she had in her hands?"

Logan nodded, grabbing his car keys. "Bobby Drake. Warren Worthington."

Scott chewed on his lip. He hadn't seen Logan look down at her hands once. No way could he have known. No way. He followed Logan out.

~

"Xavier ordered us to work together," Betsy hissed, flipping her hair off her shoulders, "but that doesn't mean I like it. You two," and one well-manicured hand waved to indicate Logan and Scott, "are far too heavy handed for such a delicate--"

Logan grabbed her wrist, tightening his grip. "We're all decked out, darlin'," and she tore her hand away from his grasp, glaring. He continued, "Don't ruin such a nice evening."

Kitty, on Scott's other side, looked nervous. Betsy composed herself, massaging her wrist. "Shall we?"

Scott went to take Kitty's elbow, but Betsy did first, standing in front of the two men. He straightened his bowtie conscientiously, and waited for someone to answer the door.

They didn't have long to wait.

~

"Katherine," Emma said, taking her elbow from Betsy, "Charmed. Champagne?"

Kitty took a crystal flute of champagne, and held her glass up. "To you, Emma," she said with a little smile. "Thank you for inviting me again."

Emma tilted her own glass towards Kitty, and sipped. Kitty did the same. "So, Katherine, tell me everything about yourself."

Emma monopolized her time, and Kitty, a few minutes in, realized that she was being subtly interrogated. She never would have realized it if Agent Braddock hadn't done the very same thing the very first time the two of them had met, and then played the tape back to her a dozen times, pointing out the flaws until Kitty had the whole conversation memorized. Braddock had made her repeat her answers, one after another with slightly different intonations, until she felt like a completely different person. One made in Betsy's image.

"I did go to college, yes," Kitty answered, "Computer engineering."

"You must have a magnificent mind," Emma said, grabbing them two more glasses of champagne from a young man carrying a tray. He smiled at Kitty, nodded briefly, and disappeared into the crowd in the other room.

Don't mention anything about thinking logically or rationally, Kitty instructed herself silently. She sipped, to give herself time to collect her answers. The boy who'd smiled at her looked familiar somehow, she'd seen him, or read about him. He couldn't have been much older than twenty. It was jarring to recognise someone and not be able to place them. "I enjoyed it," Kitty finally said. "You can get a kind of--"

She was about to say 'intuition', but then paused. That was another word she wasn't supposed to use. Despite herself, she glanced briefly over Emma's shoulder, and saw Logan walking towards the same boy, puffing on a Cuban cigar. Kitty was sure it was from Emma's own private store. The boy ducked behind a curtain, out of sight, and Logan stopped. Kitty could clearly see his irritated expression.

"--a questioning sense, I suppose," she continued, "about why you're studying something that seems next-to irrelevant. It was very difficult to find a job," and Kitty grinned a little, trying to keep her answer light.

Emma nodded sympathetically. "I've heard that many times over," she replied. "It's difficult for even the most intelligent people to find satisfying work."

Kitty made sure she was leaning in just enough, tilting her head up just enough so that she looked submissive yet not weak. She said, "it must be nice."

Emma actually paused for a second or two, and then smiled for real, a wide stretch of frosted lips and blur of white teeth. "*Very* charmed, Katherine," she said, and nodded to her. "Talk to me later, we'll discuss your employment if you'd wish. I am always on the lookout for intelligent people, and I think I may have a lucrative position for you, if you're interested. One of my firms requires someone."

Kitty smiled at her again, letting hope show in her eyes. She was supposed to jump at any chances to work for Emma, and it seemed like Emma liked her well enough, respected that she might be useful. Kitty couldn't help mulling over her answer to the question of whether Emma's work was satisfying. It was daring to question Emma in any sense. Kitty sat down on a delicate sofa and watched the crowd mingle on a subconscious level. The people were just shadows, the lighting not quite bright enough to let anyone see each other's faces properly. Emma had been pleased by the daring, Kitty decided. It seemed that Betsy, who'd advised her to be submissive above all else, didn't know Emma as well as she thought.

She continued to sit, sip champagne, until the same boy Logan had been following appeared at her elbow, with a tray of drinks. He looked a little pale this time, however. Kitty couldn't see Logan anywhere, or anyone she recognised. "May I ask you a question?" she murmured to the boy.

"Oui," he said, and put the drink tray down. "What d'you want t'know?"

"Do you enjoy working with Emma Frost?" Kitty wasn't sure why she was asking. Braddock obviously preferred this climate. Logan didn't seem comfortable anywhere. "Is it difficult?"

The boy leaned back, tucking hair behind his ears. He was very attractive, and Kitty realized that he was probably one of the actual prostitutes, a host; not a servant like she'd originally thought. "Is she tryin' t'get you t'work for her?"

"It was insinuated." She looked at him. "Is that good?"

He frowned, and brushed hair out of his face again. "Then y' be careful about who y' work with."

"What do you--" and then Betsy appeared from nowhere, smiling. Kitty looked up; the boy stood, handed Betsy a glass of champagne, and disappeared again. The smile plastered on Betsy's face was the same one she wore every time they met at the station. "Hello there," Kitty said to her.

"Come with me please," and the smile dropped off her face.

Kitty rose, and followed her into a bathroom, with elegant grey granite sinks and pure white marble tiles. One of the pure silver taps was on, dripping against the basin. "What were you doing?" Betsy asked her, arms crossed. Her red lips were thin and angry.

"I was--" She'd been asking questions of one of Emma's boys, she realized suddenly. That's why she'd felt compelled to speak with him. "It was," and she tried to think of an answer. Betsy continued to stare at her. Finally, Kitty said, "Logan asked--"

"You don't work for Logan," Betsy said sharply, "you work for me. Are you homicide? No. You're vice. Do your job."

Kitty bit her lip, getting lipstick on her teeth. She glanced in the mirror, and then carefully, with a tissue, wiped it away. The tissue looked grotesque, sitting in the garbage can, a blotch of bright pink against white. Kitty pulled another piece of tissue off the roll and covered the lipstick up.

Betsy put a hand on her hip, tapping her manicure against the silk of her dress. "Tell me what you're going to do when you go out there."

Kitty patted her hair, feeling the soft curls bounce back against her palm. "I'm going to talk politely to Ms. Frost, and hopefully she'll continue to invite me to dinner."

"And?"

Kitty pulled out her lipstick, applying more carefully. She said, "and I'm not going to talk to anyone else about anything aside from the weather," and dabbed at her lips.

Betsy smiled at her reflection, and put a hand on Kitty's neck, caressing her collarbone in what was probably meant as a soothing gesture. "Good." Betsy's hand was cold. "Because that's Logan's department, and you know he's handling it. You're a good agent," Betsy said, "just follow procedure."

"Okay," Kitty said. "Okay."

When the two of them went back out to the party, most of the guests had disappeared. Kitty looked around, and watched Betsy stride off down the corridor and up a flight of stairs. She looked around once more, and then set off uncertainly. Around a corner, she saw the same boy. He was rubbing his forehead, leaning out an open window. The hand holding his cigarette made little circles along his temple; once and a while he'd flick ash into the ashtray on the sill. She could swear his hand was shaking.

Kitty sat on a chair, watching him. She knew that Emma was probably expecting her, but people disappeared in her house all the time; it would probably look better if, at least once, she showed up late. She could always use the excuse that she needed a moment to herself. People would accept that of a person at a party. The boy didn't look at her, but she'd bet he was aware of her presence. He continued to chain-smoke. The butts, he ground out carefully into the ashtray on the windowsill.

Kitty had a feeling that he'd take the ashtray with him.

~

Scott wasn't sure what, exactly, he was supposed to be doing. Kitty had disappeared, obviously having other things on her mind, and Logan was talking to Emma quietly. Wandering past the two of them, he heard, "--no, mostly from work, we don't actually spend time socially--" which was a very odd phrase to hear from Logan. He moved away again.

A young girl with a white stripe in her hair smiled up at him, suddenly. "You care to go upstairs?" she said. "It's quieter there, we could talk."

Scott smiled. "I have to wait for them," and he was about to nod to Logan and Betsy, but realized that both of them had disappeared. He could just see Logan's back following Emma's very shapely form into the dining room. Most everyone else had already gone to eat. "Well," and he put his champagne down. "I'm mostly here on business, understand," he said to her with a charming smile.

The girl smiled back, a little bashful, and pretty. "I'd like to chat with you, is all," she answered. "But we can do that here as well as anywhere. Who's your favourite Renaissance painter?"

Scott was taken aback; he dug in his memory for some knowledge of art. "Perhaps I'm a horrible dunce, but I enjoy Michaelangelo."

The girl smiled, taking his elbow in her delicately gloved hand. "So you're not one for art," and she led him over to a couch. "What about literature?" Off Scott's blank face, she smiled gently. "Proverbs," she said. "You look like a man who deals in proverbs."

"From time to time," he told her. The girl had a cool palm on his knee, and Scott wondered if she was trying to get him as a client. For one wild moment, he considered accepting.

"My favorite proverb," she said, "is 'see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil." Scott was barely listening to her as she spoke; her fingers were caressing his knee gently, his thigh. "They say," she said, "that the saying comes from 17th century Japan, from carvings of three wise monkeys in the Nikko Toshogo shrine."

"Hmm," Scott said agreeably. The girl had some kind of floral perfume on, and her voice lilted softly. She was southern.

"But they say," she continued, "that the gesturing monkeys were actually introduced to Japan from China in the eighth century by a Buddhist monk." She leaned forward. Scott found himself turned on. "That would make them hundreds of years old," she told him. "Something that old has to be important, I figure," she said, in her sweet voice.

"Really?" Scott said, trying to sound interested. He wondered if it would blow the case if he ended up in bed with this girl.

Her hand went still, suddenly, and she looked away from Scott. The girl said, "I've always wondered what the saying means."

Scott blinked, jarred, and leaned away from her. He looked at her pink nails, laying still on his trousers, and said, "what?" He was about to grab her wrist, when Betsy's voice in his head shocked him into forgetting all about the girl.

#Scott,# Betsy hissed in his mind, #Logan. Would you kindly stop talking to the snake in the grass and come give me a hand?#

Scott stood up, and down the stairs, he saw Logan bow, gruffly, to Emma Frost, who nodded at him coolly. "Thanks fer your time, Ms. Frost." Logan's voice drifted up to him on the landing, as Scott watched them speaking.

She raised a fine eyebrow. "As ever, Logan." Logan looked up at Scott, obviously not surprised to see him there. He made his way up to where Scott was standing, and looked up. Two floors above them, Betsy was peering down at them from over the railing, looking quite trapped. For a minute, Scott considered stranding her there.

#Don't you dare.# Her small smile showed teeth.

~

Betsy unlocked a door with one of her hairpins, and opened it to a dead body on the floor. This one was an attractive older man, maybe in his fifties or sixties, who'd been shot in the chest. Scott gingerly stuck a finger in the overturned wine decanter. It was half-spilled, and the rest was rapidly evaporating; they'd have to get a sample soon. His finger started to tingle – it was obviously toxic, some kind of neural agent, maybe one to work with a mutation. "Why not just poison him?" Scott said, immediately. "Why take the time to drug him, then take the risk of shooting him? Even with a silencer, someone might have heard. Speaking of hear, Braddock, you didn't sense anything?"

Betsy shook her head. Logan stood against the door. He seemed loathe to approach this body, leaned quietly, obviously in thought.

"Brazen," Scott said. "With at least one telepath downstairs, at a party, he slips in and caps this guy." Scott scratched his scalp, feeling his fingertip tingle, then pulled his hand away from his head. "Why do it here?"

It was Betsy who answered, "Because he wanted to." Quietly, "it couldn't be simple."

"Plus you wouldn't wanna risk a mutant that controls metal around a revolver," Logan said., and pointed to the decanter. "You're safe, Slim, it'll just play with yer nerves." Scott pulled his phone out, ready to call the station-house, when Logan's hand shot out to grip his wrist. "Don't," Logan said quietly. "Just don't. We don't know what we have yet, and it could ruin Betsy's whole operation."

Scott kneeled closer to the man – his eyes were open, staring blankly at the ceiling. Logan kneeled beside him. "Do you know him?" Scott asked quietly, hopefully quiet enough that Betsy couldn't hear.

"Yeah," Logan answered. "He owns the New York Times. Or at least enough shares to control the board." He stared at the wound. "This is Erik Lensherr."

Scott put his phone away. Betsy covered her mouth. She didn't look startled, or surprised – rather, upset. "Did you know him?" Scott asked her. She didn't reply.

Logan said gruffly, "we're gonna have to move fast to keep a lid on this," and then, "someone had better go get Emma."

~

Emma, of course, was right outside the door. "What are you all doing here?" she asked sharply. Logan gave no sign of having heard her, staring at Lensherr's wound. Betsy was looking at her shoes, face red. There wasn't much point in trying to stay undercover any longer; Scott held his badge out for Emma's inspection. Ms. Frost turned directly to Betsy. "Elizabeth, I'm offended."

Her words were icy. Betsy looked stung, mouth a thin line, face pale. "I apologize for this, Emma. There's. We have another job to do--"

Emma crossed her arms under her breasts. "I will help you find out who did this, you may be sure of that. I'll leave you with this," and she indicated the body on the floor.

At the doorway, she added, "You will understand if I ask you not to come back here after tonight without a proper warrant, however." Betsy shrank into herself even more. Scott bent down, examining the victim. Examining Betsy could wait.

~

"Come and have a beer, Slim," Logan said, holding out a Miller's Draft bottle. The condensation on the outside was inviting and cold, the bottle looked slick and cool.

"I, thanks, but."

Logan jerked the bottle. "Have a beer. Sit down."

Scott took the drink and held it gingerly, sitting on the edge of Logan's sofa.

What had they found out? Scott drank the beer, half of it in one swallow, impulsively. Precious little. Erik Lensherr had a normal sexual appetite that he was hard-pressed to fulfill when sixteen hours of every day were devoted to his newspaper. He liked younger men than himself, preferred them brunette, and was often seen in the company of three different young men under Emma Frost's employ. "And Remy has rarely been home in the past several days," she had said.

Scott had asked, "Home?" but shrugged when Betsy levelled her best angry glare at him. Something in Betsy's face looked dangerous and wounded. In the background, a quiet forensics team was going over the room, the wine, the body – Logan had made the call. Erik would be taken out of the house through the servants' entrance. Most of the other guests had not been informed. The killer, Logan was sure, was already long gone. Scott hadn't bothered asking whether he thought it was Creed or whether he thought Creed had escaped his tail.

Scott had asked Emma, "do you know where we could find Remy LeBeau?"

Emma had not.

"What do you think?" Scott asked, finally settling down on Logan's sofa more comfortably. "We find this kid, we get the killer?"

Logan shook his head abruptly. "Something ain't right," he said. "If it was Creed, how'd we miss him tonight? And the kid ran, but whoever killed Wagner didn't even bother. This kid ain't evil, probably not even that dangerous," he said.

It was odd, coming from Logan's mouth. "Not evil?" Scott said, laughing weakly. "Or maybe some are just more evil than others."

Logan looked up sharply, his head whipped around to face Scott. Scott blinked a few times, while Logan studied him. Scott realized it was the first time he'd ever been invited into Logan's apartment before. He didn't really know what it looked like because they were sitting in the dark. Finally, Logan relaxed. "It doesn't matter," he said. "The kid hasn't gone back to Emma's, and he won't now, so unless he wants to be found--"

Someone had got a hold of Bobby Drake's story and plastered it all over the eleven o'clock news. They'd got to Logan's place in just enough time to see the story. "Would *you* want to be found?"

~

Kitty met Agent Braddock at the pre-arranged diner off the highway, and was shocked to see that Betsy was already there, tapping her fingers on the counter nervously. "What happened?" Kitty said.

Betsy moved to a table and sank into a chair, putting her face in her hands. Kitty had a feeling she didn't know how upset she looked. "I suppose you'll find it all out – there was another murder, upstairs," she said. "As everyone was eating."

"But." Kitty sat, took in Betsy's upset, shocked. Something Betsy had done had changed her, had made her vulnerable. Kitty bet that Emma hadn't been pleased. Kitty said, "And you investigated?"

"I found the body," Betsy said. "Logan and Scott are still there."

"So Emma knows about you," Kitty murmured.

Betsy's head shot up, and the glare she gave Kitty was momentarily angry, almost hateful. Then she closed her eyes, nodding. "You're the only one still in Emma's good graces," Betsy answered. "You might be assigned head of our case."

"If she knows about you," Kitty said slowly, "she also knows about me--"

"It doesn't matter." Betsy ran a hand through her hair. "Emma always knew who you were. She's beginning to trust you, be careful to stay discreet, keep your priorities and you'll run the case well."

"But I don't want--"

"Take it for what it is," Betsy said, and there was no malice in her voice or posture. "I welcome the vacation. If you can keep yourself focused, help catch the bastards who are beating up on Emma's people, more power to you."

Kitty was also fairly sure that Agent Braddock wasn't aware of how different she sounded right now. She looked utterly drained, mask gone. Kitty paused for a moment, reviewing the conversation in her mind. "Good graces?" she asked.

Betsy didn't answer. Kitty had a feeling that she hadn't lost any of her previous affection for Emma. She rather thought that Betsy wanted very much to interact with Emma without work getting in the way.

~

"Where are we going?" Scott asked. Logan just kept driving. The morning sunshine was definitely at odds with Scott's mood. Logan had roused him out of bed at eight thirty and said to be ready for breakfast in ten minutes. He'd barely had time for a shower, but since Logan was dressed casual, not even prepared for the office, Scott wasn't too worried about his still-damp hair and jeans. He readjusted his sunglasses.

Logan pulled in at a diner just off the highway. He turned to Scott. "We're just goin' in for a friendly meeting," he said, "so don't say too much, all right?"

They went inside. Scott understood the warning when he saw Emma Frost sitting, back to the wall and sipping orange juice, in a booth at the back of the room. She held her hand out to Scott, and he shook it. "Scott, good morning," she told him pleasantly. "Logan, what do you want?"

Logan slid into the booth; Scott followed his lead. He suddenly realized that they'd gone to the same diner the night of the Worthington and Drake murders. "I'll have a waffle to go," Logan said.

"I mean," Emma replied impatiently, "what do you want with me?"

The waitress came, and Logan ordered for he and Scott. The waitress filled their coffee cups, and Scott watched Logan put honey in his instead of sugar. "Need a favor."

"Obviously," Emma said icily. "I assume this is important, as well, or you wouldn't have abused the privilege of having the number to my private line."

Logan stirred his coffee thoughtfully. "What do you think of what happened last night?" he finally asked. "Any thoughts?"

Emma pursed her lips. "Erik was a good friend. Surely you do not think I had the slightest to do with this? Logan, you *know* I would not--"

"No, no," Logan cut her off rather abruptly. "I just want your gut impression. What was goin' on? How could someone have got into the house?"

Emma leaned back, a little more relaxed. "There were close to a hundred people in my house that night, and I do not have surveillance cameras in the majority of my rooms. I have no idea."

Logan smiled grimly. "Didn't expect you'd have filmed it, nah." He drummed his fingers on the table. "Look, we're pretty sure on who's doin' it. Just need to figure out how he got inside."

Emma sipped her orange juice. Even during the day time, at nine in the morning in jeans, she had the air of being perfectly made up. Her lips were clean of lipstick and still Scott kept thinking they shone, every time he caught them out of the corner of his eye. "The most likely way would be straight through the front door," she said slowly, "because I do not greet all of my guests personally."

Logan chuckled. "Guess we're special." Scott was holding his cup of coffee by the rim instead of the handle, trying to decide whether he actually wanted to drink it. It was scalding his hand. Logan had his fingers wrapped around the entire cup, and didn't seem to notice the heat. Logan said, "But we didn't see our guy at the party, so is there any other way?"

Emma stood, taking her purse and coat. "I will enquire. Your number is the same?" Logan inclined his head. "Thank you for breakfast," she said, and then swept out of the restaurant.

"What was all that about?" Scott asked. "We know who it is?"

"Had ta be Creed," Logan said, unconcerned. "Just gotta figure out how he got inside and to Lensherr with a party going on."

Scott put his cup down, poured a bit of cream in it and stuck the spoon in. The most logical answer was that Creed had help getting into Emma's house. It had to be someone who lived there. Scott said, "You think the kid was there last night too?"

The waitress came with their boxed waffles. Logan pulled out a twenty dollar bill, and slapped it down on the table. "Don't know anything," he told Scott. "Come on."

"Is Emma likely to help?" Scott asked. Logan nodded. "How are you so sure?"

"Did her a favor once," Logan said.

Scott asked automatically, "what kind of favor?" Logan simply unlocked the door for him, and waited by the passenger door until Scott climbed into the car.

~

Betsy wandered into the storage room, mug of coffee in her hand. Scott couldn't help but notice she wasn't wearing one of her usual silk dresses, but a business suit, even a tie. "Scott, what are you doing all the way down here in Records?"

Scott nodded politely to her. "Looking up some records," he said. "How are you, Agent Braddock?"

"So formal," she said, sitting down across from him. The only thing that was the same about her was her shoes – still spindly heels, still elegant and sharp. The suit made her look like a banker and hid her beauty; her hair was pinned up and almost messy. Without overt make-up, even, Betsy looked almost normal. Nothing shone on her eyes, no powder on her cheeks. She eyed him from over her cup. "Is there anything I can help you with?"

He was about to ask her if she knew anything about Victor Creed or Remy LeBeau or Erik Lensherr – and then clicked his teeth together, once. "Was Logan upstairs, did you see?"

She raised an eyebrow. "Your partner missing?"

"He went on an errand," Scott replied. "I was merely wondering if he'd come back yet."

Betsy stood gracefully, leaving her cup on Scott's table. The imprint of lipstick was barely visible around the rim, some neutral natural color. "I'll leave you to it," she said, but not before pulling out her own file from two shelves down. Scott tried to see what it said, but somehow she hid the label from view. He heard her chatting to the sergeant on duty, and peered through the bookcases. She definitely didn't sign the folder out.

~

Logan came back with a scrap of napkin in his hand and a fierce expression. Scott had gotten into the car without one word.

"This is it," Logan said, turning his four by four off. The engine died, leaving the only sounds in the street the birds and the squeals of children from the park; somewhere, distant, a dog barked insistently.

They walked up the drive, and Scott said, "Are you sure we're at the right address?"

The shabby brownstone, squat against the rest of the suburban landscape, was utterly unremarkable. It was old, run-down. Nothing else was apparent, except for the unusual knocker they could see on the front door.

Logan squinted at the door for a second or two, and then shrugged. "Came out all this way, might as well make sure."

Scott raised his hand, and carefully banged on the door. The three monkeys on the knocker rattled. One had his hand over his ears, smirking, one over his mouth, eyes widened. The third little monkey had his hands over his eyes, and the expression was completely unreadable, hidden beneath little monkey fingers. It was creepy.

A woman in a housecoat opened the door, crossed her arms. She didn't open the screen. "Can I do something for you?"

Logan flashed his badge. "We're looking for Jean Luc."

She immediately tensed up, shoulders hunched and mouth thin. "No one by that name here."

Scott tilted his head. "This is his registered address."

The front door opened inward, but she was leaning against the doorsill so that they could barely see into the ground floor. "Jean Luc doesn't." She looked away. "He moved."

Scott coaxed, "We really need to find him. Can you help?"

"What's he done?" Eyes suspiciously flashing from him to Logan and back again. "I never had any part of any of Jean Luc's--"

"Never said you did, ma'am," Scott interrupted. "We're looking for him--"

"The boy," Logan said, flicking his cigar butt down. He stepped on it, ground it out onto her sagging front porch. "Remy. You know where he is?"

The effect was immediate; the woman's eyes widened and she put a hand over her mouth just like her door knocker. "Merde, non, non," and then a string of what sounded like Creole French, desperate and worried, cursing them, then slamming the door in their faces.

Scott muttered, "We're never going to get anywhere here. Can't bring her in on charges, can't search the place. Our hands are tied."

Logan turned on his heel, stomping back to their car. Scott traced his finger over the woman's front door, the strange knocker. The design was familiar, he'd seen it somewhere. It would come to him eventually.

~

"May I suggest the peach?" Betsy said. She held the lipstick tube out to Kitty, smiling. "It will compliment your complexion."

Kitty took it from her, and put some on. "I don't know if I can do this," she admitted. "I'm scared to be going in with no back-up."

"Don't worry," Betsy replied, "you have nothing to fear in Emma's house. Even if she does admit that you're not just a computer programmer, the worst she'll do is ask you to leave. Fair enough?" Betsy stared at her. "After all, that's all she did with Logan and Scott."

And you, Kitty thought. She re-adjusted her dress. "You three have seniority, a working relationship."

"Emma liked you well enough, Pryde," Betsy snapped, "you'll do your job and you'll do it well."

"Should I take her job offer?"

Betsy handed Kitty her purse. "Of course."

Kitty followed her back out to the elegant lounge. They were in the same bar they'd met the first night they worked together; Kitty still didn't know the name of the place. Betsy went to sit at the bar. "Have a drink with me, Betsy," Kitty said, impulsively, "before Emma's car arrives for me."

Betsy's eyes widened. "See?" she finally said, "you're the perfect agent for this job. You can do this."

Kitty pulled a cigarette case out of her purse, and looked around for matchbooks. The bartender handed her a little crystal bowl full of matchboxes, white with no name, nothing at all except a tiny replica of the animal insignia outside the door. "What's this lounge called, ma'am?" Kitty asked, quietly.

"Two glasses of port, please," Betsy told the bartender in a pleasant voice, "and may I see a menu as well?" She turned to Kitty, saying lightly, "seeing as I am no longer welcome for dinner at Emma's, I'd better make other plans."

Kitty nodded. She looked around, and then pocketed the box of matches, putting them in her coat rather than her purse. "Do you want me to look for anything specific, tonight?"

Betsy sighed. "I'm going to have to ask you to keep an eye out for a particular boy," she said, as if the very thought was a little distasteful. She slipped Kitty a photograph across the bar of an extremely handsome young man, long reddish hair, in sunglasses.

"I saw him!" Kitty whispered. "The last time we were at Emma's."

Immediately, Betsy's whole demeanour changed and she leaned forward. Kitty recognised the change from relaxed to working instantly, her spine straightening, her eyes just a little bit narrowed. "Where? For how long? Did you see where he went?"

Kitty studied the photograph. "Can I have this?" she said. "I won't let on how I got it or anything." Betsy nodded, clearly waiting for her to answer. "He was serving in the parlour where I was talking to Emma. He ducked out to the kitchen every once and a while, but immediately came back with a tray." She hesitated. "Logan tried to talk to him but then he disappeared, maybe for five minutes?"

Betsy sat up straighter. She was frowning. "Logan saw him, tried to talk to him?"

"He ducked out of sight – but then I saw him, probably five minutes later, maybe less, in a hallway near the side door. He was just leaning out the window and smoking."

"When? How long was he there?"

Kitty glanced to the door; her car was already waiting. But it would do Emma's driver no disservice to keep him waiting a few minutes. Emma would understand. And being seen with Betsy wouldn't hurt her any – since Emma already had the two of them pegged as associates. "I sat with him for almost fifteen minutes. I missed the first course."

Betsy was still frowning. "I was already upstairs by then."

Kitty nodded slowly. "You were." She looked towards the entrance; Emma's driver was still leaning patiently against the Lincoln. "This is about Logan's case, isn't it?" Betsy looked at her sharply. "The Worthington case."

"Are you sure this boy didn't disappear for longer? Not ever?"

Kitty shook her head. "I was watching him fairly closely because," and she swallowed. "I suppose because he was attractive." She paused. "And Logan's interest caught my interest."

"Yes, you're good at noticing things other people think are trivial," Betsy answered, distracted. "I'm going to move to a table, get some work done." She smiled at Kitty, standing up. Kitty drained her drink and did the same. "You'd better not keep Emma waiting any longer, right?"

Betsy took the menu, her glass of untouched port, and her soft briefcase to a table in the corner, and sat down, obviously getting ready to work. Kitty walked across the lounge as slowly as possible, glancing at Betsy from the corner of her eye, but Betsy did nothing but study the menu until Kitty couldn't see her anymore.

~

Now they had the first glimpses of proof that it wasn't a typical serial killer, despite the evidence to the contrary, it was about time to tell the chief. Scott knocked on Xavier's door lightly, half-hoping he wasn't in today. "Come in," he called out, and Scott's heart sank. "Ah, yes, Scott, come in. How are you?" Xavier asked politely.

"It's about the Worthington case, sir--" Scott answered. It was hot in Xavier's office, hot and muggy like the city, and not like the rest of the building. Maybe his air conditioning was broken.

"Yes, I called in some help for you two on that," Xavier said, smiling. "The FBI sent someone down. I gave him the reports we have so far," Xavier continued, "and he said he'd get right on it." Scott was shocked, and it obviously showed, because Xavier immediately added, "no, no, don't worry, he understands you and Logan are in charge of the case. The profiler is simply in town to aid us in identifying what kind of man could do these crimes. He has a lot of experience with multiple murderer cases."

Scott was taken aback. "You called in a profiler?" he said. There was a tapping sound coming from somewhere, a faint tapping that was getting steadily louder. "For the Worthington case."

Xavier nodded. "After rereading your work, I thought it prudent." He shifted, suit jacket momentarily bunching up. "The best profiler the FBI has," he added.

"Oh," Scott said. Now Xavier was pushing the investigation in the direction of a serial killer. Scott looked down at the smudged report clutched in his hand, Remy LeBeau's name in there somewhere. He turned on his heel to leave.

~

"It was a phone call," the uniform told Scott, "one of the Vice agents saw him downtown." He scratched his head. "How'd you say you were involved?"

Scott didn't answer the man, chewing on his lip for a minute. He was staring through the window of one of the interrogation rooms, where a young kid, maybe twenty, was sitting at the table and looking right at the two-way mirror. It put him in mind, fleetingly, of Creed when Logan was in there with him, and Scott was unnerved.

"Who called again?" Scott asked. He didn't even have a name for the kid, just the knowledge that whoever had had him picked up specified that Logan be called immediately.

"Uh, young thing, Pryde."

Of course. Scott nodded, and just then Logan came jogging down the stairs. Logan asked the uniform, "does Xavier know the kid's in custody?"

"Nah, we haven't even filed him yet," he answered. "You want I should ring upstairs?"

Logan shook his head, and checked his watch. "Get outta here, it's almost lunch time. We can handle the booking," Logan said, glancing around. The hallway outside the interrogation room was deserted. "Go on, I'll sign for him, don't worry, your ass is covered."

The uniform went. Scott asked, "are we going to actually book him?"

Logan opened the door, and sent a quelling glare at Scott. Scott followed him in, but leaned against the closed door rather than approach the kid. Logan obviously had something he wanted accomplished here, since he made sure they were alone with the kid, and made sure there was no official record of his visit. "Remy LeBeau, right?" Logan said, sitting down.

The kid sighed. "Oui."

"You know why we're here?" Logan asked him. He lit a cigar, and the kid looked at it longingly.

"Probably t' ask me some questions," Remy answered. He didn't look either of them in the eye, but Scott got the feeling he wasn't overly nervous.

"Ya know who Warren Worthington is?" Reluctantly, Remy nodded. "And Bobby Drake?" Nodded again. "Kurt Wagner?" Barely inclined his head. "What about John Allerdyce?"

Remy closed his eyes, and tilted his head slightly. "Oui."

"What about Erik Lensherr?"

Remy's spine stiffened, and even from Scott's vantage point by the door he could see what little color in Remy's face bled out. His cheeks were impossibly pale, and he started threading his fingers through his hair. "He owned a paper, non?"

"Have you met him personally?" Logan asked. Scott watched both Remy's face, as well as Logan's. Logan didn't seem in any hurry to get to a point, in fact his voice was damned near gentle, coaxing. Scott had only heard that tone once before, when he was talking to Betsy's agent, Pryde.

"Personally?" Remy asked.

"Have you ever spoken ta him in person?" Logan asked.

"Oui," Remy answered quietly. "He was a friend of Emma Frost's."

"Right," Logan said, and sat for a moment, thinking. Scott was thinking hard as well. There was something not quite right about this interview, as if both Remy and Logan already knew the script, and they were playing out well-rehearsed lines. "Look, kid," Logan finally said, "a gal I know saw you the night Erik was killed. Saw you all night, and so you ain't a suspect. Okay?"

Remy looked at him. "Then why'm I here?"

"Because," Logan said quietly, "you were at the scene of every murder so far, and if you ain't the one doing it – and you ain't – someone else is either using you, following you, or knows you, that is."

"An' if I don't know them?"

"Not sayin' ya do," Logan said. He puffed his cigar quietly. "But I think you know something, since we've been looking all over the city for you for a week and had no luck, so no one's followin' you while you work." He peered at Remy. "How do you know who's next?"

Remy closed his eyes, pressing the heel of both palms against his eyeballs. "I get a call," he said, muffled, "an' then I have to go somewhere, an' then someone ends up dead." He looked at Logan. "After, Bobby, I threw m' mobile phone out, got a new one."

"But they still found you?"

"I don' know who's callin' me, homme!" Remy shot back, suddenly angry. "It ain' Emma, an' it ain' anyone familiar."

"But yer going," Logan said. It wasn't a question. "So they gotta be either tailin' ya, or picking the meeting spots themselves."

"Look, I knew Bobby an' Warren well enough," Remy said, "and they weren't stupid men. And Erik, he," and Remy broke off, swallowing. "I jus' ducked upstairs t' check on him." He glared at Scott. "I liked him well enough." He looked at the table. "But he was already dead."

Logan said, "Okay, okay, kid," and puffed on his cigar.

Scott frowned, thinking rapidly. Logan thought that the kid didn't have anything to do with it, except he thought that someone was using him to get to his clients. Except he didn't know who was using him, or how he knew where he'd met the men beforehand. "Bobby Drake," Scott asked suddenly. "Did he often meet you at the church?"

Both Logan and Remy's heads whipped around, almost as if they'd forgotten Scott was in the room. Remy glanced at Logan before answering. "Not specific'lly there. But other places like it, sure." He shrugged. "Didn't wan' anyone t' see him, yeah?"

"There were condoms found," Scott said, "with the bodies." Remy sighed, nodding. "Are they gonna point to you?"

Remy's eyes, without the sunglasses, darted nervously around. They flicked up to Logan, then back down to his shoes. "I don' know, probably."

Logan leaned forward. He asked him, "If we do a DNA test, are you gonna be a match?"

The kid was nervous now, definitely, nervous and uncomfortable. "DNA ain' conclusive," he answered.

Scott couldn't help it. He leaned forward and said, "a confession is." He studied Remy. Impulsively, Scott said, "Maybe we'll help you give one."

"Non, I!" Remy's eyes once again darted to Logan's face, imploringly. His hands twisted, under the table.

"Hmm," Logan said, but it was obvious he wasn't going to back Scott up. Somehow, instead of Scott and Logan interrogating the kid, it was Remy LeBeau and Logan against Scott. "I think the condoms are in evidence lock-up," Logan commented to himself. "Be easy enough to req them." Scott stared at him. "Listen," Logan said, "you'd better get out of here."

"What?" Scott said. Remy was already standing up, putting his sunglasses and jacket on. "Logan, what?"

"Shut up, Slim," Logan said. "How many people know yer a mutant?" Logan asked Remy, so quietly Scott barely heard.

"Anyone I work with, homme," Remy answered, and pointed to his eyes – now safely away behind the sunglasses. "It ain' hard t' miss."

"Anyone in here see you?" Remy shook his head. "Good. Let's get outta here." Scott made to follow the two of them, but Logan held a hand out, put it to Scott's chest. "Stay here. Wait for my call." Logan frowned. "And if Bets comes in, don't let her out of your sight."

"Is she in on this too?" Scott asked, wearily. He felt like everyone knew their lines and the solution to the puzzle, the answer to the riddle, except him. Even their suspects knew more about Logan than he did, knew what to say and what not to say. It wasn't an investigation anymore, it was a game.

"Slim?" Logan asked.

"I stay here," Scott repeated, dully. "I wait for Bets."

Logan glanced at Remy, who was staring down either hallway. "Do I hafta tell you ta keep this quiet?" Scott shook his head. "Okay, good. When I get back I'll fill ya in, okay? How's that?"

"Everything?"

Logan paused. "Okay. Everything." Scott knew he was being fed another line, but if it could give him one more clue, it might be the key to breaking through all the secrecy. He held the door open for Logan and Remy to leave, then went upstairs to type up everything from the interview with Remy. Scott had no idea who might end up reading it, but just to have something solid, concrete, to do would help his mood.

Upstairs, there was still no sign of Betsy. Her agent, Kitty Pryde, was still sitting at her desk. Scott stopped, and smiled at the girl. "Oh, hello, Agent Summers," she said.

"Hey, Pryde." He thought for a second. "How's the assignment?"

She shrugged, and put on a face he could have sworn he'd seen on Betsy. "It's going."

"What's your next step?" Scott asked. He was really stalling for time, hoping to figure out what exactly he wanted to know from her. Something was niggling his mind, some piece of information that she could maybe provide. Scott was beginning to think that there were as many secrets between him and Logan as there were between Creed and Logan.

Kitty closed whatever she was working on. Scott noticed there was no tag. "I'm supposed to be trying to get close to Emma, and figure out what clients are a danger to the people she works with."

Scott nodded. He had a strong suspicion that everyone had a 'supposed to' that they weren't doing. "I'll leave you to it," he told her, and sat down. He started typing up the interview between Logan and Remy, and couldn't concentrate. Logan had recognised Remy, Scott realized. They'd met before.

~

When Logan got back to the stationhouse, there was no sign of the kid. Scott opened his mouth to ask, but closed it again immediately. He didn't even need the warning glance from Logan to know that they couldn't discuss it here. "We'll get some lunch soon," Logan said, "okay? I got some leads I don't wanna use yet, but they might be our only option."

Scott said okay.

A uniform came up to Logan. "Creed gave us the slip," he said, ducking his head. "Outside his house yesterday, round noon. We caught him getting into a car and driving off, but we tailed the car and when it stopped outside of town there was no one but a driver in it. He was nowhere."

Logan was already moving towards his desk, muttering under his breath. Scott said, "did you pick up the driver?"

"He's in holding," the uniform said, "but there's a problem, since he seems to be mute--"

"Scott!" Logan's tone was demanding, as if he were ordering a servant around and not his partner. "Come on."

"Keep him locked up," Scott hissed, and jogged up to Logan's desk. "It's time we started using those leads you didn't want to," he said to Logan. "He's probably going to go after someone tonight."

"He disappeared in broad daylight," Logan said, flipping through a map-book.

"Do you know where he's going to go?" Scott asked. Logan shook his head. "Can you find out?"

"That Remy kid," Logan muttered, "He might know. We'll call him later." He flipped pages in the book frantically, finally pulling a twenty out of the top drawer of his desk and handing it to Scott absently. "Go and buy me a map of the city," he said, "and some markers, and wait at that coffee shop down the street."

Scott took the money. "I'll bring the case files," Logan said, "and meet you there. Make sure no one sees you," he added, looking up and around the office. Scott followed his gaze and saw a lot of uniforms standing around drinking coffee, joking, doing nothing at all. He didn't see Betsy.

"How long will you be?" Scott said.

"I just gotta find something," Logan murmured, "and I'll be there. Get out of here."

Scott went.

~

Kitty's phone rang, startling her out of a daydream. She'd been staring at the wall for over a minute. "Agent Pryde," she said.

"Kitty," Betsy said, "what are you doing? No, nevermind," Betsy said immediately, "are Logan and Scott still in the office?"

"They both left not five minutes ago," Kitty told her. "Lunch, I think."

"I should be able to catch them, then," Betsy muttered. Someone asked a muffled question. "No, it'll be fine, no where conspicuous. Kitty darling," Betsy said, "would you do me a favor?"

"Of course, Agent Braddock," Kitty said.

"I don't think I'm going to be able to come in to work today," Betsy told her. It was casual, easy going, but there was definite tension in Betsy's voice. "Could you answer my phone and keep my messages for me?"

"The switchboard usually does that sort of thing," Kitty answered slowly.

"I'm sorry, of course, I shouldn't have asked," Betsy said immediately. "I didn't mean to imply you were some sort of answering service." She sighed, and then said much quieter, "the truth is I trust you, Kitty."

"I don't mind, Agent Braddock," Kitty said. "Is it," and Kitty looked around the office. It seemed emptier than usual. "Does it have to do with Logan?"

"Good girl," Betsy answered. "Don't mention this at work," she added. "I have to go. I'll call you on your mobile to get my messages later. I doubt there'll be anything important," Betsy said, sounding more like her usual self, "but just in case."

"Of course," Kitty said again. "Should I, what should I tell people here?"

The tension was back, and sharper. "Best not mention it, if you don't mind?"

Kitty said, "of course."

Betsy sighed, relieved. "Thank you, Kitty. I have to run." Kitty hung up the phone, and frowned. She had the switchboard run all of Agent Braddock's calls to her own desk, but the only time it rang again until she went home that wasn't a routine call of her own was once. Someone called, and as soon as she answered they hung up. Kitty tried to backtrace the phone number, but it was blocked. If it was important, she had nothing to show for it. Maybe Betsy would know what it meant.

She kept her mobile on all night, even, but Betsy never called.

~

"Where are we going?"

Logan pointed, and Scott made another sharp right turn. "Into the city. I gotta meet someone tonight, check something." Scott had thought, at first, to keep track of where Logan was telling him to drive, but eventually gave up. They were going in circles, ever-tightening circles that were leading into the middle of New York. "You'll take the car, go home."

Scott asked, "how did you know that Remy was picked up?" Logan shrugged. "And why isn't he a suspect?"

"Kitty was watchin' him that whole night," Logan replied. "I got the info last night, too late to call you." Sure, Scott thought. Logan added, "it's reliable. Remy was no where near the upstairs. Besides, we know who did the killing already. Remy's bein' played."

Scott said, "like everyone else." Logan didn't answer. "Who are you meeting?" Scott asked. Logan said nothing. "Betsy?" Logan still said nothing. "Does she know where Remy LeBeau will be?"

Logan muttered, "knew you were smart, Slim," and pointed again. "Go down that alley."

Scott obliged. "Do you think that between LeBeau, Betsy and yourself, you'll be able to catch Creed before he makes his mark?" Scott made a right turn out of the alley, onto a fairly busy street. He hunched over unconsciously while he drove. "Because surely they know that LeBeau's talked to us, they won't use him again."

Logan said, "Remy's with Bets now." He checked his watch. "Damn, someone had better call in sick for us." He reached for his mobile phone, Scott assumed to call the stationhouse, but instead turned it off. "Don't answer your phone," he instructed Scott, "if the call display ain't someone you recognise."

"Why shouldn't--" and then Logan held a hand up, and Scott stopped asking. It was apparent that these instructions were going to continue, without explanation. Scott said, "So you and Betsy will go with LeBeau to try and find Creed tonight." He braked for a red light. "Isn't that risky?"

"Ain't looking for Creed anymore," Logan said. "Believe me, if we find him, we'll take care of him, but he ain't the problem."

"Who is?"

Logan lit a cigar, started puffing on it thoughtfully, but didn't roll down the window. He had never smoked in the car before, didn't want to smell up the inside of a police vehicle. "Whoever's running him."

"Running him?" Scott braked again, this time for a crosswalk. "How the hell is it all connected?" Logan shook his head. "Okay then, who's controlling Creed?"

Logan sighed. "I dunno."

"You don't know."

He continued to smoke, tipping the ash onto the floor of their vehicle. "I was being fed names," he said. "Just like Remy."

Scott was startled. "Names?"

"Worthington," Logan said, "Drake. Allerdyce. Wagner--"

"And Lensherr," Scott finished quietly.

Logan stared out the front window, as Scott carefully stayed below the speed limit. Logan said, "Guess we'll head up fifty-second street." Scott turned. Logan rolled his window down, tossed the cigar out. "Yeah, and Lensherr."

"So who gave you the names?" Scott asked. They drove farther into Manhattan.

"If I tell you this," Logan said, "yah can't tell anyone. I'm serious." Scott nodded, carefully stopping at the stop sign before he pulled into an alley behind a 24-hour deli. "Came through Betsy."

"Where'd she get them?" Scott asked.

Logan hesitated. "Doesn't matter," he finally said. It couldn't have been Remy giving her the names then, Scott decided, or Logan would have told him. Scott already knew nearly everything relevant about Remy LeBeau. Perhaps Remy got them from the same anonymous person as Betsy, someone pulling strings that Scott couldn't even imagine, let alone see yet.

Logan got out of the car, and then peered into the open window. "I'll call you," he added, "when I need you. Just stay under the radar. If we're right, we're gonna have to be careful for a few days."

Logan then nodded curtly, and took off around the block. Scott just barely saw him disappear down a flight of steps to the subway.

Scott wandered the city for maybe four hours, and made a right turn every so often. Never left turns, he thought, left meant sinister. Each time he stopped at a red light, he double checked that his cell phone was still on.


	3. see no evil

  
Kitty had a memo on her desk the next day when she came into the stationhouse, a request for a meeting from Xavier himself. She'd only spoken to him maybe three times; Vice didn't have many cases that he got involved with personally. Before now, Betsy had been the one to debrief and run her. Kitty frowned, looking at the piece of yellowed memo paper. There was no reason for it, either, nothing on the note except a brief order to come see Xavier at noon. She went to put the note down, and then, frowning more, put it in her pocket.

The morning was full of writing reports, checking up on leads that she'd managed to get last week from Emma. There were at least four men that seemed to do enough business with her, and that Emma wouldn't mind see put away, that she could focus on. Four or five who were fairly brutal. Kitty had figured out already that she wasn't looking for everyone, only those that Emma wanted gone.

She knew enough about Betsy to know why.

At ten to twelve, her office line rang, the distinct double ring that meant the switchboard had forwarded another of Agent Braddock's calls to her. She answered it, after looking around. "Hello?"

"Oh," and that was Scott Summers' voice on the other end of the line. "Who is this?"

She said, "Katherine Pryde," a little annoyed. "Who is this?"

Scott hesitated. "May I speak to Elizabeth Braddock, please?"

Kitty looked around again. There were a few agents hovering, and one or two had looked up when the phone rang. It was an abysmally slow morning; they were looking for any excuse to avoid the work they should be doing. "I'm taking all her calls. Is there anything I can do for you?"

Scott said abruptly, "If you hear from her, tell her to tell Logan that my place was broken into, but they didn't take anything."

Kitty turned around in her chair, to face away from the rest of the agents. "Have you reported it? Would you like me to--"

"No," Scott said. Kitty might have been imagining it, but he sounded angry. "Don't tell anyone but Betsy or Logan. Got it?"

"Is there anything else I can do for you?" she asked, coolly. Being ordered around by an agent that wasn't even her superior rankled.

"No," and then he sounded normal. Somewhere on his end of the line, a car honked. "Thank you."

Kitty was about to say good-bye, and then curiosity got the better of her. "Was Betsy expecting you to call?" she asked, quietly enough so that the other detectives wouldn't hear.

Scott hesitated another moment. "I gotta go," and he hung up, the faint beep that signalled a turned-off mobile phone. Kitty glanced at her call display, belatedly, but the number didn't show up.

~

"How is the investigation going?" Xavier asked.

"Well," Kitty answered, a little puzzled. "I've already identified at least four suspects that can be followed up with a bit more research."

"Good, good," Xavier said. He waited, smiling, but Kitty was inexplicably set on edge. "And your cover? Everything's going well?"

"Yes," Kitty said, confused. There was no need at all to call her into his office to ask her about this. "Emma Frost set up a preliminary interview for me at one of her shell companies. I'm supposed to go in next week."

"Good, good." Xavier nodded, still smiling. Kitty looked out the blinds, and realized that from this office she could see the whole stationhouse, at least the floor where all the detectives' offices were, all their desks. With the open door, she could even hear the buzz of conversation. "And Agent Braddock," Xavier finally asked her. "How does she think the investigation is going?"

Kitty said, "She was very pleased with our progress." She tried to keep her face puzzled, yet obedient. "I believe Agent Braddock would say we're doing a good job."

"Yes, yes," Xavier agreed, nodding. "I'm sure she would." He looked out onto the floor of detectives' desks. "It's a shame I can't ask her about it," he added, in a slightly joking manner. Kitty waited, not sure what was being expected of her, and not at all willing to open her mouth until she was. "Do you know when she'll be around next?" he asked, casually. His eyes stayed on the view, didn't turn to Kitty.

Kitty answered carefully, "She left instructions for me for the next week, but didn't mention when she'd be back in the stationhouse, no."

Xavier dismissed her, and only when she rushed outside on her lunch-break and was standing across the street outside the diner where Betsy went last, did she call Betsy's private mobile number. Xavier had no idea where Betsy was, Kitty assumed. She didn't know why she'd disappeared or how, but Kitty had a pretty good idea of who she was with. When Betsy's phone went to the voicemail, she carefully repeated what Scott had told her, then mentioned that Xavier had asked about Betsy. "I told him I didn't know when you'd be back in the stationhouse," she finished telling the voicemail. "I hope that's all right."

She looked up at the brick building, dreading, suddenly, going back in. "I hope you're okay," she added, and then hung up.

~

Scott was back at Remy Lebeau's place. "Listen," he tried again.

"Non," the woman at the door said. "An' if y' know what's good for y', you'll stay out o' it."

"Is that a threat?" Scott snapped, leaning forward, drumming his fingers on the front door. He'd knocked on the door only hoping that Logan might be there, but the way the woman had acted put him on the offensive, the attack, immediately. Something about her wasn't quite right.

"Merde, non," she told him. "Not even a lil' bit. Friendly advice, m'sieur."

Scott couldn't help a snort. "Friendly?"

She already had the door half-way closed, even with Scott's badge thrust into the opening. This woman wasn't afraid of the police, she wasn't even wary. "You're partnered wit' Logan," she said, matter-of-factly. "If I were y', I'd look at th' club downtown."

"You have an address?"

She hesitated. "677 Water street." She shook her head. "Change first. Don' bring any firearms inside, an' make sure no one spots y' there."

"Will Logan be there?"

"Might be," she said. "Don' make any calls if he ain'. Jus' be patient."

She closed the door in his face, and Scott was left staring at three little brass monkeys. He had an irrational urge to kick the expensive wood frame, but instead he took a cheap little camera out of his coat pocket and snapped a photograph of the door knocker, the flash barely noticeable in the quickly fading dusk.

~

"Thought I told you ta wait," Logan said, irritably. Scott sat down at Logan's table in the back. "Guess it doesn't matter. Have a drink."

Scott looked around. They'd been here once before, to meet Agent Braddock. "My apartment was ransacked last night," he said.

"Yeah, I heard from Bets," Logan said. He was puffing a cigar, a Cuban, and looking around. Scott knew that Logan wasn't paying attention to what he said – his answers were standard, uninterested. Logan was focused on the front door, not Scott. "Got the time?"

"Quarter to eight," Scott said. "Listen, are you sure you know what you're doing?"

Logan thrust a handful of documents into Scott's chest as an answer, and kept watch on the door. More out of boredom than anything else, Scott started riffling through them. One was a bank transfer statement, financial records, for Warren Worthington – a considerable amount of money had been sent from Worthington's accounts to unknown sources. The second was a police report filed by a Mercy Lebeau, for harassment charges against Victor Creed. The third was a copy of a confidential memo from Senator Drake's office to his campaign advisors.

"What does all this have to do with Lebeau?" Scott said, puzzled. "Or Emma Frost?"

Logan waved his hand, and Scott kept reading. A copy of Allerdyce's dishonorable discharge papers. More financial statements, the list of Emma Frost's clientele – all of their victims were on it, as Scott already knew. Victor Creed's previous military training: special forces, marines unit. Something. Kurt Wagner's statement, taken from the Lebeau case of harassment. A draft of a newspaper article that Erik Lensherr himself had penned about a new mutant rights bill--

Scott paused, staring at the stack of copy paper pages he held. "Logan," he said, uncertainly. "Does this mean what I think--"

Logan held a hand up, not even looking at him. Scott reshuffled the pages, then pulled out his original case files, started adding them to the one folder absently. The folder didn't appear any fuller, really, but Scott knew differently, slotted in this new evidence to the old, and suddenly the order of pages seemed to fall into place.

The mutants right bill he put on top; then Lensherr's murder file. Worthington and Drake fit together, one right after the other, then Allerdyce and Wagner; the financial statements went between, linking all these pieces of paper together. The Worthington transfer papers Scott hesitated on, then put them at the back with Mercy's police report.

"Here's Bets now," Logan said. "Finally."

Scott glanced up, to see Agent Braddock and Remy Lebeau striding towards them. Several heads turned in the lounge, but Scott didn't recognise any of the people. Moreover, they seemed to be watching the passage of two beautiful patrons rather than going for weapons. He didn't relax, regardless.

"Bonsoir," Remy said to the two of them. "We'd best get goin', hmm?"

"Going?" Scott said.

"I left the car outside," Betsy murmured. She had a tall champagne flute in her hand, and sipped elegantly from it.

"How're you gettin' home?" Logan asked her. He put a hand on her elbow gently.

"Where?" Scott asked.

"I'll be picked up," Betsy answered him, still in that same quiet voice. "I doubt any of us should go home right now. It would be a little inconvenient."

Remy continued to stand beside Betsy, until Logan grabbed his coat and made to leave. "What about paying?" Scott asked stupidly. He had finally figured the case out, and still Logan's behaviour was as inexplicable as ever. It didn't seem fair.

Logan told him, "I've got a tab," and then, "come on, we don't have a lotta time here, Slim." The 'Slim' was vaguely patronizing, and Scott bristled. But he followed Logan and Remy out to the car.

~

"Kitty, darling," Kitty heard Betsy say. Kitty smiled across the limo at Emma Frost, who nodded at her – yes, take the call, it's fine. Betsy said, "hello?"

"Are you all right?" It was hard not to sound breathless, eager, worried, even a little frantic. Kitty added, "I've been concerned."

"Are you in private?"

"Not exactly," Kitty replied. "I'm not at work, if that's what you're asking."

"You're with Emma. Brilliant girl." Betsy paused, then said, "Listen, Katherine darling, I need to ask you a very, very large favour."

"Is it personal?" Kitty said.

"Not exactly." Kitty waited; Betsy finally said, "I need you to break into Evidence tonight and take anything that's accumulated on the Victor Creed case."

"Is this for Logan?" Kitty asked.

"For me. And Logan," Betsy told her. "And if it's not too much trouble, would you mind getting the perfume out of my desk, as well? Top drawer. It's my last bottle, and I don't really have time to get any more."

"Of course," Kitty said, and stopped herself right before she said Betsy's name. Emma probably knew who she was talking to, but just in case. "Do you need anything else?"

Betsy hesitated. "What does Xavier want you to do?"

Kitty did snort. "Tell him where you are."

"Just make sure they're happy with your work," she said. "Now I have to run – I'm at the lounge, I have to find a place to go for a few hours before I meet Logan again."

"I can meet you," Kitty said. "If you need."

After Betsy hung up, Emma pressed the button the raised the privacy shield between them and the driver. "Was that Elizabeth?" she asked. Kitty didn't nod; Emma said, "Fantastic. Let's go pick her up. I'm sure by now she needs me."

~

"Breaking and entering?" Scott said.

"We can't get a warrant because we can't prove how we got those files," Logan said patiently.

"And he'll be able to get in?" Scott said.

Remy grinned wide. Logan said, "he'll be fine. We have to do this tonight in case Creed skips town."

"And you're sure we need this?" Scott said.

Logan's answer was to get out of the car. He closed the door, which meant that Scott couldn't hear what Remy and Logan said to each other, but he did see Logan gripping Remy's hand. Like a friend.

~

Betsy slipped into the limousine, Kitty making room for her by putting herself into the corner, away from both Emma and Betsy. "Thank you," Betsy murmured. Kitty didn't know to whom.

"You're going to be looking for a new career by the week's end," Emma told Betsy crisply. "You do understand that, do you not?" She re-folded her legs. "This is not the way to conduct police business."

Betsy nodded. "This isn't police business anymore. You know why he called Remy?" Betsy didn't give her a chance to answer. "To get to you."

Emma's eyes narrowed, but she acquiesced, and relaxed a little more. "Go,"   
she told the driver. Kitty stared out the window, and watched the silent buildings   
of New York City flash past her. They were going too fast to see any of the   
people still out clearly; rather, people became blurs, trees became little squiggles.   
Street lamps because streaks of light.

They were going to drop her off around the corner from the precinct. The drive was quiet; right as the limousine slowed, Emma turned to Betsy. "Are you all right, Elizabeth?" Emma asked her. There was concern in her voice.

Kitty opened the door, and was stepping out of the car. "Tell me," Betsy said to Emma suddenly, "what you know about Victor Creed."

~

"Time?" Logan said.

Scott didn't have to look at his watch; he answered, "not even eleven."

Logan sighed. "We're going to be here all night," and he dumped his Styrofoam coffee cup out of the window.

Scott looked at his watch again. He'd been doing so every two minutes since they'd parked outside Erik Lensherr's office building at quarter to nine. Each rounded number was perfectly clear, backlit from the digital glow and so he couldn't even pretend to read the face wrong. "You're not usually impatient," Scott told him.

"Hmm," Logan said.

"You actually worried something's gonna go wrong?"

"Hmm," Logan said. He looked out the side mirror, as an engine sounded far off, hand halfway to the ignition. As the buzz faded away, he asked again, "Time?"

When Remy Lebeau came back to the car, Logan got out to open the car door for him. Scott found himself gripping the passenger door handle.

~

Kitty's heart was pounding, but no one looked up as she passed, coat wrapped around evidence baggies of bullet casings, DNA samples, and witness reports. She smiled brightly at the desk clerk on her way out the door, and sighed in relief only when she was in her car on the way to her apartment. For a moment, she pondered whether her home was safe, but then realized – Betsy had sent her to do something inside the stationhouse itself for a reason, and that reason was, no one knew she knew anything.

Kitty parallel parked right under her own window. She glanced around before going inside, but the street was quiet. Her only nagging anxiety came from where she should put all the evidence Betsy had asked for; there was nowhere properly secure in her place. Finally she settled for under the bed, and then thoughtfully put her spare revolver in the nightstand drawer beside her pillow. One couldn't be too careful.

~

Remy had come back with a pile full of proofs, several other mysterious artefacts in a plastic bag, and a leather date and address book. Logan didn't look at any of it, and Scott couldn't see through the plastic, no matter how hard he stared at the store logo. He didn't recognise the name of the store, but it was obviously an expensive one even from the quality of their bags.

Scott was gratified to see Remy was wearing latex gloves. He failed to take them off once back in the car.

"Yah find it?" Logan asked Remy.

"Non."

"Nothin'?" Logan slumped back. "If Creed were in the city, Erik woulda known."

Remy said nothing, simply put his seatbelt on. The latex gloves made his hands look whiter than the rest of his body. "Maybe somethin' at his home?"

"Yeah, you're probably right," Logan said. "Never woulda kept info on his people at the office."

Scott broke in sharply. "Lensherr knew Creed?"

Logan swivelled his head, looking in all directions, before pulling out of the parking lot. "He used ta run him."

"Run him?"

"It's a military term," Logan told Scott. Scott had guessed that, but hearing it from Logan made him pause, and he reached for Lensherr's address book. Remy relinquished it only after glancing at Logan. "We don't need anything else," Logan said. The left-turn blinker clicked on and off as Scott opened it.

~

Erik Lensherr's home was in one of the most prestigious areas of Manhattan; he had a 24 hour closed circuit camera feed playing live for six armed security guards, and there were four uniforms outside the yellow police tape. Remy was in and out in fifteen minutes. Scott counted the alarms he hadn't tripped, the guards he would have had to avoid, and even for the kind of professional that Remy obviously was, or had been, he wouldn't have had more than eight and a half minutes in the house.

"Get anything?" Logan asked him, as they pulled away from the scene. Remy nodded; there was a bulging sack full of papers under Remy's arm. "Good," Logan said.

"How'd you know where to look?" Scott asked, suddenly. His voice was too loud in the car, or perhaps it just sounded too loud after Logan's low mutter. Remy, in the front seat, didn't turn around. Scott said, "right. Nevermind."

"Why don't you check the address book?" Logan said, and Remy handed back the sack, minus most of the files that Logan snagged before Scott even had a chance to notice the color coding. Scott rifled through what was left, and found color photographs that proved Victor Creed had arrived, by bus, two weeks ago – the day before Warren Worthington was found dead in Manhattan.

"Look," and Scott handed the photographs up to Logan, who was driving. Logan took them, holding them against the steering wheel with one hand and shifting into fifth gear with the other. "That, with everything else, should be enough to get him arrested."

The photographs, there was one thing Scott couldn't figure out, and that was who could have taken them. Logan interrupted his thoughts. "We'll check the bus station," and then he said, "probably won't find anything."

"No," Scott said. He stared through the gap between the two front seats, and noticed Remy, forehead leaning against the passenger door window. His breath fogged up the glass, in a faint rhythm, and Scott wondered if he knew how to handle a camera.

~

Logan made the two of them sit on a bench while he looked around the bus station. Scott was only too happy to oblige. Remy shrugged and folded himself gracefully onto the wooden bench, close enough to Scott to suggest they were waiting together. Scott wasn't sure how smart that was, considering how public a place this was, but Remy refused to move; he went so far as to smile at Scott a few times, and re-crossed his legs.

"Don' worry," Remy said, leaning in to speak with Scott privately. Intimately, Scott realized. He tried not to lean away; that would bring more people's attention. "Logan'll get what y'need." He added, "justice will be done."

It was a very odd phrase to hear. Scott glanced up at the white letters, naming busses coming in from all over the country, travelers all ending up here after miles and hours of road. He looked at Remy. "So what do you get?" Scott asked him finally. "You don't seem concerned with breaking the law."

Remy was watching Logan query the ticket agent, and seemed to not even hear the question. Scott sighed. Finally, without leaning in Remy said quietly, "Mutants need each other."

Without Senator Drake's very vocal support, the Mutants Right bill would never pass. Scott said, "So it's us or them?"

Remy just shook his head.

"What is it then?" Scott asked.

Remy looked at him. "Y' don' ever want t' find out what kinda reward I get," and Remy turned away.

Scott understood, suddenly, why Remy Lebeau was voluntarily helping them. It was hidden, and it was fleeting, but Scott had seen it on his face. Guilt.

Logan came over to them. "Creed got off a bus from Chicago," he said. "Computer says he started in New Orleans." Logan looked at Remy. "He's probably got someone helping him in the city, found him a place to stay."

Scott asked, "What's in New Orleans?" Remy and Logan didn't answer. Scott asked, "who's helping him?" Remy and Logan didn't answer.

~

"We'd better stop," Scott said, unnecessarily. Remy was due to make another phone call, but it was the middle of the night; they needed somewhere to go.

Logan stopped at another diner; he seemed to know all the mutant-friendly diners in the entirety of New York. Logan seemed to know exactly how to get by being a mutant in New York.

Logan and Scott sat at the counter together, drinking coffee. Logan studied Lensherr's address book. "Jesus," he said, "everyone's in here."

"Everyone who?"

Logan sighed. "I'm gonna tell you something now, Slim," he said. "We're gonna have to take out Creed." Scott knew that already; he'd already figured that out. Betsy and Logan weren't working with the police; because of some mutant rights bill, five people were dead: three of the most influential mutants in the city, a beat cop that knew who Victor Creed was, and a petty drug dealer.

Scott said, "Who was Allerdyce, anyway?"

"Betsy'll have to look at this stuff," Logan told him, flipping through the rest of Lensherr's papers. "She knows his type."

"Is he connected to Remy?" Scott asked. The drug dealer didn't make sense; his name wasn't in the harassment charges, he didn't seem to have the same kind of power as the people who seemed to encircle his current world. There was no way that someone like Allerdyce could have associated with Emma; everyone in her world was refined. Even Remy, a young man who could be living on the street, had grace.

"We'd better get a move on," Logan said.

"Was Allerdyce someone Lensherr knew?"

Logan stared at Scott, until Scott shook his head. When he was a child, Scott knew a kid down the street that spent one entire summer playing with dominos. He'd set up miles of them, and then with one flick make them all tumble down. Scott was angry that the memory surfaced; it was a grade-school analogy. His thoughts clicked together. And Scott said, "Fuck you." Scott looked at Logan. "Allerdyce was the one Creed contacted, wasn't he? The discharge papers, the navy tattoo." Scott put the address book down. "Creed knew Allerdyce. In New Orleans. That's how he got in touch with Allerdyce."

Remy said from behind him, "an' St. John, he knew me."

Logan stood. "Let's go." He said to Scott, "I told yah we didn't need the book anymore."

"I'm not done with my coffee," Scott said, and looked down at his cup. The rim was dirty. Logan didn't say anything, but he did sweep up all of Scott's carefully collected evidence and tuck it under his arm. "We need backup to go into--"

Logan peered out the glass door of the diner, looked into the parking lot where a sleek black stretch limousine was pulling up. Betsy, wearing a dark suit, got out. "We got backup," Logan said.

"Betsy?" Scott said, surprised. The limo pulled away, and Betsy stood on the asphalt, peering up at the neon sign advertising waffles for a dollar. The green and red shone on her face, her light skin, turning it multicoloured and alien. Scott continued to sit at the counter while Remy and Logan went outside; he could clearly see them through the window, talking to Betsy. Betsy looked inside, and then at Logan; Logan went to the car.

Betsy opened the diner door. "Scott," she said quietly.

Scott looked up at her. He rubbed his thumb along the top of his mug. The coffee was barely lukewarm; the cup itself was cool and smooth. "Are you really an agent? Do you really work for the police?" Scott asked her.

Betsy sat down beside him. "Of course I work for the police, Scott," she said. "We all work for the police."

Scott said, "Who do the police work for? Jesus."

"Are you all right?" Betsy asked.

She moved to put a hand on Scott's shoulder, pausing when Scott leaned away. Scott was starting to feel a little sick; he nearly knocked his cup down. "We're going to kill Victor Creed," he finally said. "We'd better get going."

Betsy stroked her hand along Scott's neck, running her hand into his hair and massaging his scalp with her fingertips. "Scott. Darling. There are no bad guys."

He pulled away from her, deliberately, slowly, and then slammed his palm down on his counter. She jumped. "No," he answered calmly, "we're all bad guys." He got up and left. She trailed after him, high heels clacking on the cheap linoleum and out of place.

~

Creed was supposed to be holed up in a rental property uptown. Logan didn't say how he knew and Scott didn't bother to ask.

In an unnerving way, the entry-way was much like Warren Worthington's apartment; same expensive taste, same uncluttered, polished feel. No statue this time, the polished marble floor gleamed in the moonlight. Two weeks ago, it had been the new moon, Warren's floor dark. Victor Creed's staircase was alight, the full moon fully visible through the skylight in the roof.

Logan glared at him, and Scott subsided into silence. Logan held the heavy front door open for him them, and then let it close and lock with a click. Scott wasn't sure how Logan intended to leave again, but so far he'd planned for every contingency.

"Upstairs," Betsy said, "check the office."

Scott began mechanically started climbing the stairs, and then paused. "What am I looking for?" Logan put a finger to his lips silently. Right. Don't ask, Scott thought.

Betsy pushed him up the stairs gently. Her hands were cool and smooth on the back of his neck. Scott studied the stairs, the grain of the marble, the curve of the banister. He couldn't help but feeling a tingle where Betsy's fingers ran over his collar, and he memorized the patterns in the stone beneath their feet. He didn't even notice when Betsy lead him from behind, and they came to another door down a second story hallway.

"This is it," Betsy murmured, reaching from behind him to open the doorknob. Scott tensed up, expecting an alarm, or at the very least a rush of air.

"Where?" Scott said, as quietly. His tongue felt thick. "What are we looking for in here?"

Betsy leaned over his shoulder, and he thought she was going to tell him something, anything, but instead, she pushed the door inwards and stepped around him to go in.

Once in the office, however, Betsy dropped the whispering and flicked on the light, making every appearance to ignore him. "So what are we looking for?" Scott asked again. With the fluorescent light on, the room was normal, no shadows and no corners, no apparent places to hide anything.

Betsy was booting up the computer. "Anything," she answered, "that's relevant."

Scott rifled through a filing cabinet, and found three pistols, all the same make as the one that had killed their victims. Scott would bet fifty bucks that an analysis of these guns would match the bullets they'd found in the bodies. He didn't pick them up.

In the bottom drawer, Scott found a folder marked with the address of their stationhouse. "Betsy," he said, picking it up carefully with a handkerchief and holding it out.

She took a breath and abandoned the computer. Opening it for both of them, Scott found copies of the evidence reports from the five murders, pictures of him, Remy and Betsy - and at the bottom of the pile, a list of phone numbers. Scott scanned them quickly, then said, "That one's mine."

Betsy leaned over his shoulder. "My office, my mobile," she said. "That one's Logan's home. His mobile."

Scott said, "the front office."

From downstairs, there was the murmuring of voices, and if Scott hadn't been absorbed in the piece of paper the volume might have alarmed him. "That's someone in Accounts, over at the station," he said slowly.

"That's the newspaper," Betsy said, gesturing to a Long Island number. It would have been long distance from here; Scott made a mental note to have the phone records for the building pulled, until he remembered that they weren't undercover, they were investigating on their own and he had no official capacity here.

The addresses on the flipside were all their victims, complete with names. Whoever had made the list couldn't have been too worried about anyone finding it.

Betsy pointed to the last number on the list. "What's that one?"

Scott recognized it from somewhere, he was sure he'd seen it or dialed it, or seen Logan dial it. He pulled his phone out and, without thinking, dialed, holding it out so they could both listen. Two rings, and a familiar voice answered, sounding tired and scratchy, "yes? That was quick, get going."

Betsy ripped the phone out of his hand, then closed it and turned it off. "Do not turn your phone back on," she told him sharply.

"What was." Scott looked at his phone, at the inert display. "I don't get it."

"Do not turn your phone back on," Betsy said. She didn't seem inviting anymore. Betsy took one last look around the office, then said, "Let's go." She pointed to the folder resting dumbly in Scott's outstretched hands. "Bring that."

Downstairs, Logan and Remy were arguing. All the lights in the place had come on, and they seemed to be trying to decide something rather urgently. As he and Betsy descended, they shut up abruptly.

"Bets," Logan said. "We gotta get out of here." The fluorescent lights of the front hall made the marble look gaudy and unfinished. Logan had his gun in his hand, down by his hip.

Betsy was already pulling Remy to her side, and pulling out her own revolver. Scott clutched the list of phone numbers to his chest. Betsy said, "we have a bigger problem." Logan looked at her. "Scott found a list of our phone numbers." She clutched her gun. "The bottom one was Xavier's home."

Remy's face was white, scared; Logan said, "Remy's pager just went."

~

"Kitty," Betsy said into her phone, "Where are you?" Scott looked back at Betsy. The four of them were in Logan's SUV. Whenever Logan turned a corner, Scott held onto the handle near the roof to keep from swaying. Betsy said, "excellent. Stay there. No, if you need to, call Emma." She hung up, and the car was quiet.

Scott didn't even bother to watch where they were going. He knew exactly what Betsy and Logan were planning to do to Victor Creed, knew what they intended. Tomorrow morning, the New York Times would have a two page spread about Erik Lensherr's work and contributions to the community and to journalism; nothing about his personal life or why he was stabbed. Somewhere in the middle of the paper there might be a mention of a Victor Creed, tourist, found dead in New Jersey. But maybe not. It might not be newsworthy.

Logan pulled up to a hotel bar, one with no name on the door like the one Logan and Betsy seemed to frequent. Scott had his hand on the door handle when he realized that all the doors were locked from the inside – he looked into the front seat and saw Logan holding his finger on the release button.

"This it?" he asked Remy. Remy nodded. "Okay. We're going into the lobby; you go in."

There was no sign of Creed and no sign of who Remy was supposed to meet. Remy hesitated only a moment before he opened the door. Scott realized he was scared.

~

The lobby was beautiful, with a small fountain in the middle and a discreet lounge area off to the side. They could just see Remy, sipping a glass, at the bar. Logan had showed the clerk his badge and settled into an armchair near the fountain, Betsy and Scott beside him. "Now what?" Scott said.

"Now, we wait," Betsy murmured. She put a piece of hair behind her ear, and folded her hands in her lap. A low ringing sounded, and Betsy stood up to take her call. Her heels made little noise as she made her way across the bronze tile.

Scott listened to the soft tinkling of water. "How do you plan to kill him?" he asked Logan. Logan looked at him. "I didn't." Scott watched the water. The clock at check-in said they had about ten minutes. "How?" he asked.

Logan turned around to face him; he said gravely, "Listen. I didn't want it to go down this way, Slim. But you gotta let me do my job. I gotta do my job."

Scott said, "What job?" Logan pulled out a cigar, even though there was a no-smoking sign on the wall right in front of them. "The rules are not there for us to break," Scott said.

Logan puffed his cigar. From across the room, Betsy smiled at Scott, lips very, very red.

~

Three seconds before Creed showed up, Logan said, "I don't like this." Betsy stared at him, sharply, and Logan added, "We're just waitin' here for him."

"You don't think--" she started to say, but whatever Betsy thought, Scott never heard it, because Creed opened the doors to the lobby, not the bar, and strode over to where the three of them were sitting.

Scott had his hand on his pistol, one eye on the clerk at the desk. "You're gettin' old," Creed said, staring down at Logan. "Time was you'd never end up here."

Logan stood up, casually, stretched. "Figured you'd come anyway."

Scott felt every muscle in him tense, he could feel every hair on his body. Betsy was a shadow out of the corner of his eye, he was watching Creed. Creed said, "consider it payment."

"For what?"

Creed looked over to the bar; Scott saw that Remy was long gone. Creed turned around, calling over his shoulder, "I owed you a favour, don't anymore. From the old days."

Scott felt his heart beating, so rapidly that his whole body was trembling with tension. He was afraid. He could barely see Creed out the doors anymore; the tails of Logan's trenchcoat were disappearing around the corner after him. Scott looked around dumbly, said, "are we, what--"

Betsy was already on her feet, looking frantically around the lobby. "Jesus," she said, and then said urgently, "Scott, get *up*."

He rubbed his face. "Logan's gone, Remy's gone," he said. "Creed's gone."

Betsy had his arm, was tugging on it. Her grip was so tight he'd have bruises on his forearm later. Scott felt sweat on his forehead. "Scott," she said, low, "Creed came here to warn us."

"Warn?" His legs stood, separate from his thoughts. Betsy pulled him, unresisting, to the door. "About what? Where's the mark Remy was supposed to meet?"

Betsy kicked open the doors and with both hands pushed Scott outside and onto the sidewalk. "Come *on*." She tugged him across the empty street, and then turned to face him. "We're the ones that found that list of phone numbers. We're the mark this time."

~

Logan shot him, but not before the hotel exploded.

Scott put his arms up over his face just a few seconds too late. When he woke, he was blind.

~

Xavier came to see him first. "How are you feeling, Scott?"

"I don't know," he said. There was nothing in his room that he could identify; Xavier was to his left, but that was all. He had no way to read the newspaper, though the television set in his hospital room droned news casts endlessly. Scott didn't hear anything about the shooting, or the explosion. It wasn't important enough to mention.

"You concentrate on feeling better," Xavier said with sincerity.

Scott swallowed. "I have something to say, on the record," and he turned to where he thought Xavier was sitting. The section chief had taken the line it was a serial killer hook, line, and sinker, but it couldn't go on. Scott said, "His ritual was an act, Victor Creed was working to try and prevent a mutant rights bill from going through. Someone was feeding him information about how to prevent the legislation - and without Lensherr and Senator Drake, that's it, that's the game. Creed pulled it off, and now that it's all covered up." Scott stopped talking. "On record, the cover-up regarding the extent to which Victor Creed was involved, past and potentially present, with certain members of the department, must be investigated further. Logan and Braddock - they knew him."

"I see," Xavier said, low.

Scott added, "Logan shot Victor Creed in the back of the head."

~

Xavier didn't come back.

Scott put in a call to another department, and got Charlotte Johnson of Internal Affairs to come and see him the next day. She was human.

The door clicked when she came in, and Scott trusted that she had made sure no one would be able to hear them. He told her what happened, all of it, enough to convict Logan and Betsy, Remy if they ever found him - even implicate Emma. When he finally finished talking, Charlotte said, "Are you sure it was them?"

Scott tried to tie his shoes clumsily. It was nearly impossible to adjust to having nothing in your world beyond your own skin and what you could touch, what you could hear. He gave up on the shoelaces. "I'm sure. I'll. I'll testify."

Charlotte told him. "You're doing the right thing."

He nodded. "Yeah, I know." By morning his team would be arrested. But he couldn't let them just get away with murder, he couldn't. Betrayal was necessary in their line of work. It was Logan's first lesson.

~

In-active duty. He just had to go in and sign the paperwork.

Xavier called him up just as he was about to leave for good, cane tapping along the floor.

"It's good to see you mobile, Scott," Xavier said.

"I called Charlotte Jones, Internal Affairs," Scott said. "This morning. I wanted to inform you."

"Are you sure you want to go down this road, Scott?" Xavier asked him. "It's not going to be easy."

"Chief," and he threw his hands up, frustrated. He couldn't even see his hands, his palms. "Just pick Logan up, get Braddock. We can't do nothing."

Scott imagined Xavier steepling his fingers on his desk, leaning back, looking at him. The space in front of his body was a blank. "That may be difficult, Scott," Xavier said. "You see, no one's heard from Logan since yesterday morning."

"What about Betsy?"

"We'll track her down," Xavier assured him. "Don't you worry."

"They're gone," Scott said flatly, and wanted to storm out of the room. "They'll already be gone." He took a breath. The faint smell of cigar smoke – clinging to the room, nothing but a faint odour but obviously fresh – filled his lungs, but he was so angry it didn't register. Angry and disappointed. Scott felt himself exhale slowly. He was finished. "I would pursue the investigation," he told Xavier, "if I was on active duty." He sighed. "I'd find them."

Xavier studied him. "I'm sure you would." Scott pictured him nodding to himself. "You would."

"I'm sorry, sir," Scott muttered, "that I can't."

"I was most concerned," Xavier said softly, "to hear about your, accident, Scott." He shuffled some papers around, and the rustle sounded overly loud. "I'm sorry."

Scott shrugged. "Maybe I'll put in a request for a leave of absence," he told Xavier. "Some time off might be good."

Xavier sounded sympathetic. "I'll make sure the paperwork goes through," he told Scott gravely. "And do," he added, much more lightly, "have a good time on vacation."

Scott nodded to Xavier curtly, at least to where he imagined Xavier to be. "Yes sir," he said. "I intend to." He spun to exit the office, and tried to feel his way to the closed door with the new cane. The space from the desk to the hall was a mental blank; it was possible that Scott had never actually been in the chief's office when the door was closed before, never been privy to such a meeting. And he had no way of seeing now that on the back of the door hung a framed print, barely letter paper size, of three monkeys – hands covering ears, mouth, and eyes respectively.

Scott reached for the doorknob. "Yes sir," he said slowly. "I will."

~end~


End file.
